Ironglaive
by Plasmadon
Summary: The Crystal does not take kindly to disappearing from history.
1. Chapter 1

Harry James Potter was not a normal boy.

It was one of the few absolute truths in the universe that an eight-year-old boy could understand. He knew that he needed food and water, that the Dursleys would yell at him if he messed up the bacon, and that he was not normal. How could anyone who could vanish and reappear on a rooftop be normal?

When Harry woke up on an otherwise pleasant Sunday morning, just minutes before his aunt rapped at the flimsy door to his cupboard, he took a few minutes to contemplate himself. What would he look like in the mirror? Would he look like William Bennett, who had to shave his head because he had something called "cancer"? Aunt Petunia hadn't exactly been gentle when she'd snipped away most of his hair. He reached up tentatively, searching for the bangs that he knew she'd left. They were still there, still coarse and dry compared to Dudley's downy cowlick.

On cue, a sharp knock snapped him out of focus. He tensed for a second before remembering that he wasn't in trouble, or at least not enough to warrant being locked in the cupboard without food. "Get up, boy!" Aunt Petunia's too-high voice drawled. "Set a kettle for tea and start on the bacon, and don't you burn anything!"

"Yes, Aunt Petunia." The words were clockwork, as was his swinging out of bed and scrambling to the door. He barely paused to pull on a pair of too-large jeans and a shirt that could likely have passed for a dress on anyone else.

He opened the door, and Aunt Petunia paled.

He blinked owlishly at her, his head cocked. "Aunt Petunia, are you alright?" he asked. He wouldn't have minded if she wasn't—an ill Aunt Petunia meant she would hole herself in the master bath for a day or two—but she seemed positively ashen compared to the usually strict voice he'd heard.

"In the kitchen. Now!" This time, he bolted, moving as fast as he dared in the hallway leading to the kitchen. She sounded _weird_. Almost afraid of him. Was she worried he'd burn the bacon this time? Did she _want_ it burned? He knew Trevor from the class down the hall liked his bacon crispy and black.

Harry dutifully set the kettle on a burner and flicked on two dials. This, at least, could set his mind at ease. He liked cooking. Not as much as reading or talking to William Bennett, but it was something to take his mind off the possibility of no food.

The bacon was fried and lined up to drain in just a few minutes. He debated leaving the pan to sit on the stove; the leftover fat would make that night's salmon taste better, and he might be allowed a piece if it was good enough. When he turned around, however, Aunt Petunia was staring at him as if she'd swallowed a lemon. "Aunt Petunia, should I leave the pan on the stove?"

"Don't ask questions," she snapped. "Just leave it there. I'll wash it out later." She bustled over to the kettle. A bit of water splashed out of the spout and barely missed his arm. He wasn't entirely sure it was an accident. "Boy, I want you out of the house for the rest of the day. Don't come back until dinner."

Harry opened his mouth, about to ask whether he had to weed the garden or clean the attic, but Aunt Petunia's eyes turned frosty enough to chill the room. He nodded quickly and raced back to his cupboard. The old coat he'd gotten as a hand-me-down from Dudley hung to his shins and had a tear down one arm, but it worked well enough, and Harry was warm when he stepped into the chilly autumn air.

Privet Drive and its neighbors weren't all that large, and there was only one playground between the three of them. He was half-ready to turn towards one and swing aimlessly, but a lanky boy with big hands caught his attention. Piers Polkiss, idly swinging a flexing tube in his hands, took a step back.

Harry abruptly turned around and ran the other direction, going faster than he thought he ever had. Piers hadn't seen him, hadn't even turned around from where he was blasting his parents' garden with a hose, but Harry didn't like taking chances when it came to Dudley Dursley's friends.

Harry ran and ran until his lungs burned and his legs were creaking. The world vanished in a mosaic of green, white and asphalt black. The heat pumping in his legs, almost agonizing, was uncomfortably reminiscent of Dudley's well-placed punches.

He stumbled to a stop when his lungs finally gave out and he descended into a hacking fit. Mouth dry, chest heaving, he glanced up.

A massive brick building, almost a castle, stood sentinel over the cracked pavement and leafless trees. Harry stared; two windows stared back. This was most certainly not Privet Drive. All the houses in Privet Drive were made of drywall and vinyl siding and were so neat you could eat off the floor. Everyone on Privet Drive owned a pressure washer, or at least it seemed that way from how the houses sparkled.

This… monstrosity, on the other hand, looked like it hadn't seen even a sponge in its life. The bricks, which he was sure would be a stunning shade of red, were caked with dirt, rust, and grime. The windows were marginally better, but rain-streaks still left them nearly opaque, just a graying film stretched over cracked holes. A puffy, spiraling cloud crossed the sun for just a moment, and while Harry stood in the sun, the building became a gloomy outline against rising buildings in the background.

Still, people came and went. He watched a group of girls, all with strikingly blonde hair, leisurely push the doors open. In the same way, a man with glasses and a thick beard left, carrying a stack of books tall enough that Harry was worried he might fall.

Tentatively, he started toward the dingy glass doors. One of the girls smiled at him as he stepped past her. He wasn't sure whether to be embarrassed or skittish, so he settled for a shy smile and a bit of a nod.

The first thing that struck Harry when he beheld the library's interior was the smell. He'd only encountered that particular aroma a few times, and always after one of Dudley's birthday binges. Paper, old and new, pressed and crinkled, filled his nose and soothed his muscles. Books were a luxury in Number 4; his librarian at school practically chased him out of the library, and the only time the Dursleys got an influx of books was when Dudley's birthday came around. Even then, he could only read a few chapters of each before he risked the Dursleys finding out.

Someone tapped his shoulder, and Harry's head whipped up. One of the blonde girls, the same one that had held the door for him, was giving him an indulgent smile. "Are you lost, sweet?" she asked.

He shook his head, not daring to speak. No, he'd heard of the library when Uncle Vernon blared the TV while he was making dinner, he'd just never seen it before now. The girl's smile broadened, and she showed a bit of glimmering white teeth. "Let's find you something to read, then. Can you read well?"

Harry nodded sharply. He was the best in his year at reading, his teachers had said it themselves. It was the only thing he risked being better at than Dudley. Quietly, he said, "I like to read storybooks."

"Ah, they're my favorite as well," the girl whispered, giving him a conspiratorial wink. "Come on, then. You're looking for the third level."

She led him to the winding stairs, both steps and handrail made of mirror-smooth panes of glass. He peeked towards the back end of the library as they passed the second floor. It was much deeper than he'd imagined, easily enough for him to get winded if he ran from one end to the other and back.

Then again, the burning in his lungs hadn't quite subsided yet.

The girl led Harry to a chunk of the library that looked much older than the rest. The wood was stained from obvious use, coffee-stain splotches spreading languidly across grainy shelves. "This is the oldest part of the library," the girl explained. "When it was first built, it was a little thing, barely bigger than this section. Over the years, Surrey kept putting more funding into it until… well, you saw how big the first floor was. They put the shelves up here so nobody would damage them down there."

"You know a lot," Harry said, eyes wide. How old _was_ this place? It had to be at _least_ fifty years old, maybe more!

The girl chuckled. "That's because I spend a lot of time in here. You should too; it'll make you smarter."

Harry frowned at that, though he had it expertly hidden away by the time the girl leaned down to point him towards one of the shelves. He barely listened when she told him something about that particular section, instead running over the presence of the library in his mind. Dudley wasn't very smart; even he could understand that, if Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon didn't. He couldn't read as well as Harry, and Harry was sure that if he actually tried he could get much better marks than below average.

Of course, if Aunt Petunia or Uncle Vernon found out he was doing better in school than their precious son, he'd be locked in the cupboard for a week. They might even hit him if Uncle Vernon was extremely angry. He'd only done it once, and it had left a welt on both of them, but Harry was remiss to try his luck again.

He considered just tearing away from the nice girl and running out of the library, but before he could she shunted him towards the weathered bookshelves and grinned at him. All he was able to get out was a soft, "Wait," before she vanished down the glass staircase, waving wildly. Harry scowled.

There went that plan.

Idly, he shuffled between the shelves, looking for something that seemed interesting. Most of the books there were thicker than his clenched fist, but he found a few that seemed small enough to be pleasant. He looked over the cover of the first one. The shell was hard and glossy, shielding a picture of a man in bright armor waving a sword and a menacing dragon. A bright warmth lit up within him. He _loved_ knights!

A pair of red chairs beckoned from a nearby alcove. He nestled into one, the fluffy back and arms giving way beneath his slim weight. He flipped to the first page, reading past the typical "once upon a time" opening he'd seen in the few storybooks he'd read and moving to the first chapter.

When Harry looked up next, it was to the sight of a man in a dark suit striding into the section. His hair was dark, even darker than Harry's deep black, lustrously gleaming in the artificial lights above. That was all he could see of the man besides his gently tanned skin. His sunglasses and sleeve hid most of the rest. He gave Harry a small nod, then reached for a heavy tome with thick pages.

"How is it?" It took Harry a moment to realize the man was talking about his book. He clutched it closer to his chest.

"It's good," he admitted quietly. It _was_ good; the hero had just finished traversing the forest of evil gnomes and had found a drawbridge to the castle where the dragon slept. He could almost see the great cleave of earth, filled with churning monsters, in the fore of his mind. "Do you want to read it when I'm done?"

The man's soft grin dashed Harry's question as soon as it left his lips. "I've got this to finish," he admitted, raising the heavy book. Harry looked closer and noticed the barest trace of a crimson bookmark sticking out from between two yellowing pages.

Harry set his book down, careful to bend the spine a bit and make opening it easier. "What is it?" he asked. "Is it some sort of magic book?"

"Something like that." The man flipped the book open, revealing frayed pages and heavy ink staining splotches across the paper. Intricate diagrams, most of them made of _writing_ instead of lines, dotted each page, followed by dozens of lines crammed as closely as possible. Harry reached out tentatively, only touching it when the man gestured. The paper scratched underneath his nails, sending a shiver up his spine. He pulled his hand back, but the sensation left his fingers tingling with a weird feeling that settled in his gut.

The man gestured for Harry to sit again, and he did so. "This is actually a story," the man admitted. "One I've been writing myself. It is nearly complete, but I only have a short amount of time before I must finish it."

"Are you going to sell it?" Harry asked, intrigued. The book looked absolutely _huge_. The only books he'd seen like that were in his fleeting glimpses of the library in Stonewall Primary. "It looks like it'll take a long time to read. Uh, sir."

The man's laugh was warm, and Harry found himself relaxing a little. "I'm not a sir. I haven't been royalty in a long, long time. If there's anything you need to call me, it is Noct."

"I'm Harry, sir—er, Noct." Harry shook Noct's outstretched hand, aware of how he was utterly dwarfed. Noct wasn't particularly tall, but he was still half a head taller than Uncle Vernon, and Uncle Vernon was a full two heads taller than Harry himself.

"I suppose it will take some time to read," Noct murmured. "But the lessons within are worth poring over."

Harry, feeling brave and a little warm after Noct's explanation, ventured where he'd normally never even consider. "Do you think… when you're done, do you think I could read it?" he asked weakly.

Noct's smile faded into a neutral line. He glanced up, as if considering it, then grinned again. This time, the curve of his lips was a little more genuine, and he pulled his sunglasses off.

His eyes were a crystalline blue, just as striking as Harry's own emerald. Harry started as Noct's gaze seemed to intensify. "I'll do you one better," Noct promised. "I still have a bit of time left, so I think I can tell you one story from this book."

Harry felt a bit of panic, along with something else he couldn't identify, bubble up in his gut. "Are you sure?" he asked immediately. "I don't want to—"

"Don't worry too much," Noct said, his smile broadening slightly. He tapped the side of his red chair, the puffy armrests denting under the pressure. A gentle _thwap_ of flesh on fabric accompanied the motion. "I think this is a story that you might want to hear. Especially with that book you have."

Harry glanced at the book he had yet to finish, then towards Noct again. His suit seemed a little dingier than before, but maybe that was the stabbing shadows that the lightbulbs cast from above. "If you're sure," Harry finally mumbled.

"Perhaps not the full version, then," Noct said. "I doubt we'd have the time anyway. But I think the short version should suffice." He cleared his throat and turned to a page near the end of the book. Harry stared at it. It was worn, much more worn than the other pages, and several patches of ink had been blotted out or ran to the sides of the book. Still, Noct glanced over the paper as if he knew the story by heart. "This is the story of four friends, leaving their home behind to search for a princess. The leader of these young men was a prince. He wasn't your kind of prince, I think; he was brash and rude, and he didn't like much other than fighting, fishing, and being lazy."

"That doesn't sound right," Harry argued. "Princes are supposed to be brave and adventurous, and they're supposed to be kind too! This is a weird prince."

"I suppose he was," Noct replied, chortling. "Still, he was the heir to a kingdom that was beset by an Empire of vast proportions. The Empire was mighty; they had demons and soldiers that could be created on a whim, and their onslaught overtook the whole of the world before stopping at the Prince's kingdom. Even then, the Empire encroached, until naught but the crown city of that kingdom remained, protected by a Crystal of immense power.

"As the Prince and his three friends searched for the Princess, they learned a great many things, not just about themselves, but about the Empire as well. Eventually, though, the crown city fell to the Empire's might, and the Prince found a new reason to live: to make the Empire return his kingdom and the Crystal they took, no matter the cost.

"With his father dead, the Prince learned and fought, and he became strong in both body and mind. Still, he refused to put on his father's ring. He didn't want to, you see; he was afraid of being a failure, of not living up to his father's expectations." Harry nodded at that. He had a _lot_ of experience with not living up to people's expectations. "After a time, when several of the gods had descended to give the Prince their blessings, he was reunited with the Princess."

"What happened then?" Harry asked, all pretense of nervousness forgotten.

"He met with another of the gods, the great sea serpent Leviathan. The Leviathan did not take kindly to being included in the annals of the history of men. She and the Prince fought… and the Princess was killed."

"What?" Harry gasped. "That's not how stories are supposed to go at all! Stories are supposed to have a happy-ever-after, not people _dying_!"

Noct smiled ruefully, his grin stained by the merest traces of regret. Harry stared. That was the exact same grin, down to the twitch of the corner of the lips, that he wore whenever he thought about his parents. "I suppose it isn't," he muttered softly. "My story isn't a fairy tale, though. Bad things happen to good people sometimes. It doesn't mean that the story is bad, just that the story isn't over. Besides, I think that this story is going to have a happy ending."

Noct took a deep breath before turning his gaze back to the book, idly tracing a pattern in the worn pages with a finger. "The Prince grieved for weeks. His love was dead, and one of his friends was blinded in the attack. Moreover, he learned that the Princess wasn't dead at the hands of Leviathan, but the Chancellor of the Empire. He raged against the world for a time. But still, he learned. His friends taught him that being angry wouldn't do anything important, that grieving the Princess' death wouldn't solve anything in the long run. His determination found once again, the Prince sought the blessing of the next god and moved to confront the Chancellor.

"They journeyed into the heart of the Empire and faced off against the toughest demons and men that the Empire could scrounge. They found themselves overwhelmed, but the Prince's friends forced a way through, a chance to get to the Crystal and cleanse the Empire's capital of the demonic scourge that tainted it. Something unexpected happened, however, and the Crystal took the Prince within itself for ten years. The world fell to ruin, overrun with demons, and the three friends barely survived."

Harry opened his mouth to interrupt again, furious at the story, but Noct held up a finger. "That's not quite the end yet, boy. The Prince was eventually released, but he returned to a world of nightmares. He fought his way to the edge of the capital, where the Empire's chancellor was waiting, and reunited with his three friends. Together, they moved to confront the Chancellor one final time. They fought with everything they had, and the three friends succeeded in surviving until dawn broke over the crown city. The Prince… he sacrificed himself for the sake of the world he had promised to protect, and brought light to the crown city once more."

Harry waited. Minutes passed in perfect silence, a thick blanket that suffocated his ears. When it finally became clear that Noct wasn't going to say any more, he tried to speak. The only thing that came out was a harsh breath. Still, it was enough for Noct to continue speaking. His blue eyes, once bright like sapphires but now dimmer than the paint plastering his cupboard, stayed glued to the book.

"It's not the most ideal ending, certainly not a fairy tale finish, but I think it's one of the best I could write." He glanced up at Harry, lips curled into a humourless smile. "See, I like the idea of the Prince as a tragic character. It was his destiny to protect the crown city and make his kingdom whole again, even if he had to sacrifice his life to do so. In the beginning, he was a lazy brat that made use of every cent he could, but by the end… he learned the meaning of humility and restraint. He stopped cursing his fate and accepted it with open arms, but he never forgot to defy it whenever he could. Instead of fighting for himself, he fought for his kingdom, for his three friends, for all the people he met along his journey. Yes, I very much like this ending."

After a while, Harry gripped his cushy armchair's armrests tightly. The fabric bent obediently under his half-fists. "Did the Prince ever put on the ring?"

"Yes, he did," Noct responded. "It happened right before he stormed the Empire's capital. He was separated from his friends, you see, and he had to fight through most of the capital alone. Without any weapons or hope, he took up his father's legacy and fought with that."

Noct closed the book and fiddled with the ring on his finger. It was a pretty thing, Harry thought, made of black metal and silver and set with a shiny clear gem—probably a diamond, if the similarity with Aunt Petunia's wedding ring was any indication. "This was the inspiration for the ring," Noct explained, pulling it from his finger. It slid seamlessly off, even though Harry was sure it had fit snugly to the man's index finger just moments before. "It has much the same story behind it. My father left this to me, but I wasn't able to put it on until I faced a few things about myself."

"It's cool." It _was_ cool. The light reflected in the diamond, sending scattered shards of light across the quiet library hall. Even the faint bustle downstairs seemed to dull, replaced by a silence that embraced rather than suffocated.

"I think…" Noct began, pulling his ring back. He flipped it end over end in one hand. The other was rapidly jotting down lines in the book. Harry started; where had he gotten the pen from? "I think that I have a good idea of how this story ends."

"How?"

Noct smiled, mysterious and amused. "By starting another one." He finished the last line with a flourish and closed the book. With a grunt, he tossed it to Harry, who yelped. The book struck him full in the chest, and though he didn't fall over, a dull throb still resonated in his ribs. "You should take that and write your own. Who knows, one day yours might be better than mine."

"But what about yours?" Harry rasped.

"What about mine? It'll fade into obscurity one day. I can see a little something in you—you'll be able to make it to greatness someday. You'll be even greater than the Prince, I guarantee."

Harry went very quiet, and for a moment he simply clutched the book to his chest. It was still warm from the pressure of Noct's hands, and the smooth leather almost glided under his pale arms. "You really think so?" he asked softly. Noct's smile widened, and he leaned down to ruffle Harry's hair.

A small part of Harry wondered when he'd grown his hair back, since he _knew_ Aunt Petunia had shaved most of it off the night before, but Noct's grin took up most of his attention. It was warm, not quite loving, but better than a lot of the looks the other kids gave him at school. Almost friendly.

"One of my friends was a boy that went from a chubby brat that liked video games to one of the strongest fighters I know. If he could do anything he set his mind to, then so can you."

Noct stepped back, his ring still flipping in his left hand. He held it out, the silver gleaming as it rotated softly. "This is my heirloom, the Ring of the Lucii. It come from a long tradition of great men, blessed by fate. I believe that it's no longer my time to carry this ring. That's why I want to entrust you with two tasks, Harry Potter. Your first task is to write down your story in that book. It doesn't just contain my legend, but the legends of everyone who has held the Ring before me. Now, it passes to you."

Noct pressed the ring into Harry's hand and curled his fingers around the warm metal. It seemed to radiate heat instead of the clammy sort of warmth from wearing it for so long. A gentle tingling sensation blossomed on Harry's skin where it touched. "My second task… take this to the one that you feel is destined for it. The Ring knows enough to recognize the next in its legacy, but it needs someone to guide it towards that person. I entrust this to you, Harry Potter, in the hopes that you will continue the line of the Lucii."

Noct stood, leaving Harry clutching a leather-bound tome in one hand and a glistening black and silver ring in the other. He turned the corner, and Harry tore after him, almost dropping the book in his haste.

Noct was gone by the time he made it around the corner, and though he spent the next half hour carefully looking through the library for any sign of him, there was none. Harry eventually dropped into a chair and sighed, looking out the window. Sunset twinkled over the hills in the distance, spreading a smooth flood of orange through the library. Harry idly twisted the ring in his hand, watching it reflect the light in a blaze of furious, fiery light.

When the sun finally dropped below the horizon, Harry tucked the ring securely into his pocket, hid the book under his shirt, and walked back to Number 4, Privet Drive. All the while, he wondered how Noct knew his name. He hadn't given it once.


	2. Chapter 2

A week passed, and Harry didn't dare open the book. He'd hidden it in an especially old shirt of Dudley's that almost fit him normally. It was one of his favorites, even though it was a mucus-green color and had more frays and rips than everything else he owned combined. He didn't have a lot of clothing that fit him normally, since the Dursleys just tossed a few of Dudley's shirts and trousers at him when he couldn't fit in them one day.

Of course, if the Dursleys found out he actually _liked_ that shirt, they'd burn it just for the sake of it. Thus, he kept it safely under his cot, right next to the small collection of cobwebs his pet spider wove a few days before.

Harry kept the ring at all times, however, even though the Dursleys would undoubtedly hit him if they found it. The warmth it radiated soothed his tense muscles whenever Uncle Vernon raised his voice, fought down the budding irritation any time Aunt Petunia piled more work onto his already-heavy load.

It wasn't until October, however, when the gusting winds of autumn descended upon Surrey and hues of red and yellow highlighted every tree, that Harry tore the book from its secure wrappings and flipped it open.

Harry didn't know whether or not he threw the first punch. Lunch break that day had been especially harrowing; after more than two weeks of almost sluggishly tailing him, Dudley and his friends charged him down with all the ferocity of a tiger. In a fraction of a second, Harry was slammed against a stone wall.

The ring in his pocket practically burned, but he didn't bother pulling it out. Instead, with nigh-unbearable heat burrowing into his thigh and cool darkness spreading across his vision, he swung back with everything he had. The crackle of the fire in his pocket staved off the dark film over his eyes. He punched again, more softly this time.

Malcolm had just taken it, staring dumbly at him. Beside him, Piers was on the ground, clutching his face.

Uncle Vernon had been apoplectic.

Oh, he'd held it in well. Uncle Vernon was, despite all evidence to the contrary, skilled at keeping his rampant emotions in check. Harry had seen only a few of the emotions that were running through his head when he'd been told of the fight, and none of them were good. Fury, derision, confusion, a bit of _fear_ —But then he was calm, his face a flat line. All he'd said was, "Come along, you two," and he was out of the building. Nobody said anything to stop him, though whether they thought he was going to administer punishment himself or they just didn't want to get close to his rapidly-whitening fists, Harry couldn't tell.

The three of them had been silent during the whole car ride home. Dudley tore away from his dad after a few whispered words, smiling widely and practically _skipping_ down the street. Harry was ushered into the house, so tense even the ring's soothing heat failed to relax him.

Uncle Vernon, however, didn't do anything Harry expected him to. Harry expected him to yell, to roughly shove him in his cupboard and bolt the door, even assign hours upon hours of chores. Instead, he gestured for Harry to sit down.

He was so stunned he moved without complaint.

"Harry," Uncle Vernon said smoothly. There was a bit of disappointment there, though it was not aimed at him. Even though Uncle Vernon's voice was neutral, his eyes glinted with that complex mix that coalesced into rage. "You got in a fight with Dudley."

It wasn't a question. Harry merely nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

"And you didn't to any of that—that freakishness you do? Just your fists?"

Harry winced. Uncle Vernon didn't like being reminded of the weird things he could do. Thankfully, Aunt Petunia was the only one who'd seen his terrible haircut the night before he'd been given the ring and book, so he didn't get meals taken away for that. If anything, it was better that he only did his freaky things rarely. The Dursleys tried to ignore it, and a few weeks after each incident whatever he'd done was usually forgotten in the midst of one of Uncle Vernon's Grunnings deals.

Harry started, realizing that Uncle Vernon was still waiting for his answer. He nodded again, a bit more meekly than last time. It was always best to appease Uncle Vernon if he brought up _freakishness_.

Then, to his utter shock, Uncle Vernon began to deflate. "At least it was only fists," Harry heard him mutter. "Boy! You're to finish all of your chores before I come home from now on. If you don't, no dinner and half breakfast. When you're done with every, you only come back to the house to sleep or use the bathroom. I want you out."

Harry almost raised an eyebrow before thinking better of it. He did, however, open his mouth, and then dam burst forth. "You're not going to lock me in my cupboard?" he asked quickly. Getting the question out before Uncle Vernon or Aunt Petunia could stop him usually got it answered in one way or another.

"Don't ask questions, boy," Uncle Vernon grunted, this time tinged with bits of the storm still raging in his eyes and on his face. A vein pulsed on his neck. "It's become clear to me that you're doing more harm than good when you're in this house. You don't want to be here, and we don't want you here."

Uncle Vernon sighed, then, glaring at the fireplace as if it were a sedan that had just crashed into the house. "I am not a bad person." Harry wanted sorely to refute that, but Uncle Vernon continued before he could make the mistake of opening his mouth. "You'll be allowed to sleep here, eat meals, and wash yourself. You'll do the chores in exchange. However, consider us done with you. You're on your own as soon as you can leave."

That was… unexpected. So unexpected that Harry could only nod dumbly and step back when Uncle Vernon told him to get out of the house until nightfall. He didn't comment on the fact that he definitely wouldn't be able to get all of the chores done before Uncle Vernon would return from work each day. He didn't ask where to go, or what he should do. He simply slipped into his cupboard, pulled the book free of its wrapping, whispered a quick goodbye to Robin the spider, and ran out of the house.

It was still the middle of the day, and though clouds covered the sun he could tell from the rumbling in his stomach that lunch had barely passed. The playground sitting at the junction between Privet Drive, Wisteria Walk, and Riverstone Copse was absolutely deserted.

Harry sat down and opened the book, pulling the ring from his pocket.

Some of the entries in the book were written in a language he couldn't understand, several others in a weird script that was barely legible. The last, though, was written in picture-perfect English, by a hand as neat as any. _Noct's_. It was the story of Noctis Lucis Caelum, 114th king of the kingdom of Lucis. Harry devoured every word.

The whole story didn't even take an hour to read, but there were a lot of references to things he didn't understand. Noct's story was so much like the one he'd told about the Prince. Differences rang abound, as well as specifics, but overall he could easily see the black-haired Noct as a rude, arrogant prince.

With a click so profound it was almost audible, everything slid into place.

"It was true!" he shouted to the deserted playground. More softly, almost to the ring, he whispered, "Everything he told me was true. About the Prince and his friends, about the Princess, about _you_. All of it was real."

And yet Insomnia didn't appear on any maps. There weren't any empires taking over the entire world, nor were there monsters and daemons that came out at night. The story of Prince Noctis' adventures across Leide, Duscae, and Cleigne were fascinating, but they simply weren't _possible_. Altissia was supposed to be beautiful, with glistening waterfalls and stunning arches set against the sea. There was nothing in the world like that; if there was, he would have heard of it in school.

But there was still too much of a coincidence. Noct, Noctis. The Prince, the King. The journey and the end, hastily scribbled out in a scrawl much more rushed than the previous paragraphs. All of it was too close. After sitting and staring, thinking and pondering, Harry came to a conclusion that he should have come to years ago.

It was magic.

Magic ran unbound in the world of Eos that Noctis described in his story. The royal family of Lucis could use it, the Oracles of Tenebrae could use it, even the daemons could use it. Magic could do things in the story that he barely even knew could happen. It could throw lightning bolts, create explosions with just a thought, freeze people solid.

But he'd seen more magic than that. Even if the Dursleys didn't let him watch television, he still managed to sneak a few glimpses from the corners of his eye when he made dinner. Dudley Dursley's favorite show, The Great Humberto, showed a lot more magic than just shooting elemental blasts at robotic soldiers.

Then again, nothing Humberto did was anywhere near as destructive as what Noctis could pull off.

But he'd seen magic in both cases. Maybe Noct came from some part of the world that was hidden by a magical veil? Maybe he was from a different planet entirely, and he used magic to teleport to this one?

 _'Hah,'_ Harry thought snidely. ' _Like that'll ever happen.'_

Still, he had irrefutable, undeniable proof that magic was real, and it was probably magic that did whatever it did to make Noct appear in the library. Harry flicked through the book again, reading through the last few pages of Noctis' story before glancing back at the older entries. Some of them—the ones he could read, anyway—mentioned magic, but more often than not the entries wrote about some sort of crystal that did the magic.

"Maybe the ring?" he asked softly. The twinkling gem in the center certainly seemed to be some sort of crystal. The band was a bit big for his hands, but he slipped it on his thumb, trying to get it to fit just right.

 _Fire_.

Arcs of blue raced along his fingers, bringing with them intense, ringing agony. The world faded to white, then blue, then black, but all Harry could think was how much it hurt and how much he wanted the ring _off_ and it wouldn't come off and—

Suddenly, the world came back into crystalline focus. Heat bled into his hand, eliciting a groan and a mental yowl. Dry, cracked chunks of mulch filled his vision. He rose, trying to ignore the simultaneous scent of cooked bacon and dirty wood. "Wazza smell?" he grunted, flailing his arms. Another tremor spasmed through his fingers, though it quickly faded into a dull throb. Had he spilled some of the bacon drippings on his shirt in the morning?

Harry glanced down and paled. ' _Definitely not bacon drippings.'_

Strangely enough, his first notion was that human arms burned significantly weaker than he thought they did. A tracery of bluish arcs crossed the skin, almost crystalline, highlighting new canyons and grooves formed from bloody, oozing flesh. He shook his fingers experimentally. The wince that came along with the stab of pain was little more than an annoyance, rather than the incredible, fiery heat he'd felt when putting on the ring.

The ring!

Harry scrambled back and searched his fingers. The ring wasn't on his thumb. Then again, he wasn't where he was before. He pushed himself to his feet, hissing indignantly at the twinges it coaxed from his still-scalding hand. The book sat innocuously on the ground a fair ways away, right next to the swing-set he loved to use when the playground was deserted. Right next to it was a semicircle of scorched wood chips, all radiating away from a glinting object on the ground.

Harry stepped closer to it. He scowled, daring it to make a move. ' _Stupid ring,'_ he thought harshly. It gleamed back. Somehow, Harry got the feeling it was calling him stupid as well.

Harry grabbed the book, but before he could turn to pick up the ring another hand had already grabbed it. A pale, familiar hand, beginning to bud with blond fuzz on the back. Harry's heart sank.

"What are you doing with something like this, Potter?" Dudley said cheerily, turning the ring in his fingers. Harry tried to grab for the ring, but the air rushing across his knuckles only sent another fitful stab into his skin. Thankfully, Dudley was alone, though Piers' parents' car trudged idly along the road towards Privet Drive.

"That's _wicked_!" Harry swore—something he'd promised Aunt Petunia he wouldn't do again when she took away meals for two days after he heard it on the television—and tried to jerk his hand away, but Dudley was strong. Pudgy fingers snapped tight around his aching wrist. "What happened to make it look like that?"

A trail of clear liquid dribbled down Harry's arm. The blood flow reduced to a sluggish crawl, but a puddle still formed on Dudley's hand. Harry felt a brief spike of terror as Dudley's other hand came up, the ring dancing wildly between three fingers—

The sapphire cracks in his skin flared, and Dudley flew back. The ring flickered in the air, knocked free of Dudley's grasp. Harry lunged. His fingers clasped tightly around the black filigree, oddly absent of pain. A tremendous warmth, overbearing and soothing and intense all at once, suffused the metal.

" _What did you just do?"_ Dudley snarled. Harry turned; his cousin's shirt was ripped down the middle from the blast, but there wasn't a hint of damage on his otherwise flabby body. Dudley's eyes, however, flashed with the same combination of rage and confusion that Uncle Vernon's had not two hours before.

There was a hint of something else there, something approaching awe, but before he could get a closer look Dudley gnashed his teeth. "Look at me when I'm talking to you, freak," he grunted, voice rasping and low. Harry ignored him. His hand practically glowed with light that was somehow warm despite the encroaching chill that spread from his fingertips.

"Listen to me!" Dudley launched a blazing fast punch at him. He bolted to the side, dipped down to grab the book once more, and ran. Fire boiled in his hand—the ring or his burns, he didn't know—etching the burns even further into his skin. The bluish veins, more jagged now, began to glow.

"Potter!" If Dudley had time to scream, then so did Harry, and if he had the lungs to scream he had the lungs to run. He made a sharp turn past a dividing wall bordering Riverstone Copse and into Wisteria Walk. His mind raced, eyes flicking between buildings for a way out. Wisteria Walk ended in a grove of its namesake. Could he hide there?

The idea was discarded a moment later. The wisteria plants had all shriveled with the coming winter, and Dudley could easily find him in a small maze of trunks and no boughs. The ring could be an option, but only if there was nothing else. Whatever it had done to his hand _hurt_. None of the neighbors except for Mrs. Figg would let him into their houses, but Mrs. Figg was on vacation at Gibraltar that week.

That left the book. Even as he ran he opened it, his stride becoming an unsteady lope. Most of the pages whistled ominously in the wind, and he winced when the introduction to the third story ripped slightly. Still, he flipped through the pages, not quite sure what he was looking for. "Come on," he hissed. "Please!"

He stopped on a page, glancing through it. ' _There!'_ a little blurb written by the CVth king, Clovis, detailed a spell that made someone hard to spot when they were standing still. He glanced around, wincing at the overcast light. The book mentioned the spell worked better on the night of a full moon, when complete darkness encroached on the land. Greying daylight would have to do. Still, he was a little worried by the mention that daemons could see through the glamour. Did Dudley count as a daemon?

Harry cut a sharp left just before the end of the Walk, diving behind Number 22. Dudley's frustrated shout was just a few seconds behind. He raced through the passage.

"What does _that_ mean?" he groaned. Something about fractals and Crystal shards and a meteor. "I just need to be invisible!"

Dudley turned the corner, and Harry sucked in a sharp breath.

He stowed the ring in his pocket and clutched the book in his unhurt hand. It was bound in heavy leather; if all else failed, it wouldn't be half-bad as a weapon. All one-hundred-and-fifty pounds of Dudley charged down the alley, perfectly aimed at him. He dove to the side. His shoulder smacked painfully against the fence, but he kept his eyes on Dudley even when his head twisted too far.

Dudley simply ran past him, sweat beading on his brow. As soon as he turned the corner, Harry stood and readied himself for a surprise attack. He kept the ring between two of his knuckles, just in case he needed something hard to punch with.

After the first minute, Harry began to relax a little. After five, he backed away from the alley, eyes darting and thoroughly confused. The sun peeked out from a cloud, shedding a bit of much-needed heat on his skin. He rubbed at his arms, idly glancing at the ring.

He almost dropped it when he realized it was floating a good four meter above the ground.

"It worked?" he gasped. Almost cautiously, he brushed his fingers against the vinyl siding of a nearby house. The smooth, patterned surface tingled against his fingers. A bubble of uncomfortable heat still pulsed and toiled inside his right hand, but his left relished in the coolness brought out by a gentle breeze.

He couldn't see any of it.

No, that wasn't right. Whenever he flexed the fingers of his left hand, or took another step towards the wisteria grove, a faint image of pasty flesh superimposed itself over the environment before fading entirely. The glitter of his right hand caught his attention for just a moment. The glow from the crystalline streaks embedded in his burns remained, originating from seemingly empty air.

"This is weird," he grunted. "Cool, but weird. I want to be seen again."

A hazy flicker of his arms and legs, but nothing else. It vanished when he gnashed his teeth. "Come on!"

A spike of anger, another flicker. Harry snarled and _pushed_ at the tingle in his right hand. It was quickly becoming annoying, having to cradle the burns in his pocket.

His image solidified for a brief instant.

He was gone again before he could get a proper look at himself in a window, but it was enough. Harry grinned savagely and brought back that feeling of impotent irritation. He shoved at the rising bubble in his hand, _willing_ it to stop.

The tingle dwindled, and with it came his static-laden form. The fizzing bubble in his right hand _fractured_ , rather than popped, but Harry pushed the metaphysical pieces away as hard as he could. With a sound akin to a sizzle and the smell of burning rock, he solidified once more.

Harry stared at himself in the nearest window. Shards of something glassy rained down around him, evaporating into clouds of glittering dust the moment they touched earth. With them came embers of bluish flame, both frigidly cold and unbearably hot. They winked out on his skin, but he couldn't help but feel something electrical inside them, almost _magical_.

He thumped his head. _Of course_ it was going to feel magical.

Movement caught his attention past the window. His gaze refocused into the living room window of Number 18. The single lawyer in that house, a thirty-something brunette that Harry had seen walking a dog around the neighborhood every so often, must have left the television on while she cooked dinner. An old woman waved and nodded to masses of people, a smile so well-practiced that Harry knew it was fake immediately on her lips.

Queen Elizabeth Bowes-Lyon flicked out of existence a second later, replaced by a handsome weatherman gesticulating wildly at a map. The ring suddenly felt extremely hot in his pocket, burning with such intensity that Harry was worried his pants would singe.

" _That's_ who I'm supposed to give it to?" he whispered, horrified. "Sod off!"

The ring's heat simply flared once before returning to its steady warmth. Harry sighed. Getting a magical ring to a queen that was bound to be in a palace surrounded by guards at all hours of the day, all the while without any money or supplies to do it. And he was _eight._

"Right," Harry breathed, a shaky gasp already on his lips. "Easy."


	3. Chapter 3

When Harry trudged through the Dursleys' front door that night, he expected to be in even more trouble than he was before. His stomach was already growling fiercely, though that was easily ignored. It was the niggling clench in his gut that took up most of his attention, the kind where the muscles tighten and the stomach contracts even though there's nothing in it.

He met Uncle Vernon's eyes at the end of the hallway, noting the distaste barely-masked by a forced smile. He was dressed in his usual bathrobe, one that made his shoulders seem even larger than they usually were. Once upon a time, Harry had wanted to hold the fluffy blue fabric, but with the ring sending pulses of intense heat through his leg, he forced himself to keep his eyes on Uncle Vernon's face.

"No dinner for tonight, boy, but if you do a good enough job on the breakfast you'll have the leftover eggs." That was all Uncle Vernon said. Not a whisper of Dudley's ruined shirt, of the fight that he'd undoubtedly told his parents about. Just… eggs.

Uncle Vernon seemed to notice something was wrong, however, and bustled forward. "In your cupboard, now," he barked quietly. Aunt Petunia must have been asleep already, then. Harry nodded and darted to his cupboard. His tiny bulb had barely burned to life when Uncle Vernon shoved the door shut. The familiar click of a lock sounded, and as if nothing had changed, Harry was alone.

Except something _had_ changed, and he wasn't alone. He gingerly set the book on the scuffed concrete floor and pulled out the ring. Just as it had been doing all day, it pulsed with a light and heat that was frankly disturbing. Even more disconcerting was the way the crystalline veins in his hand shimmered in time with the rhythm.

"Good evening, Robin," he mumbled to his spider. Robin turned towards him and watched silently for a few moments before continuing her web.

"And now we're on to you," Harry growled at the ring. "You didn't tell me you could do all that!"

The ring throbbed once. Harry got the feeling he was being laughed at.

"Alright, see if I care. Guess you don't get to see the Queen after all—" Harry yelped and sprung away when the ring caught fire. Harry only had time to bat it towards an unoccupied corner of the floor before it went out. Robin scuttled away, a small part of her web complex in azure-smoldering ruins. "Oi, what was that for?"

A thump sounded upstairs, and Harry promptly clamped his mouth shut. He launched his arms up to pull the cord to the bulb. It winked out just Uncle Vernon's heavy footsteps rumbled down the stairs. "What's that sound, boy!"

"Sorry, Uncle Vernon!" he called as loudly as he dared. "I tripped over my own feet."

Harry barely heard Uncle Vernon's answering mumble as he trudged back up the stairs. One of the middle boards creaked worryingly, dust descending like a waterfall from its depths. Just something else to be repaired, he supposed. When Uncle Vernon's footsteps couldn't be heard anymore, he released an absolutely virulent glare at the ring. "What," he snarled, "do you think you're doing? You're going to get us both caught, and Uncle Vernon will take you away!"

The ring flashed a few times, not seeming remotely sorry at all. It was hard to tell when it didn't have a face to look at. "I don't want him to take you away! I promised Noct I would give you to the Queen. I—I want a way to fight back against the Dursleys. They treat me like dirt and they threaten to hit me sometimes because I'm not _normal_. But Noct wasn't normal either, and he was a king! If he can do it, then so can I, so I won't let him down."

The ring cooled slightly in response, waves of visible, hazy heat suddenly snapping back into perfect clarity. Harry looked down at his hand, glowing a gentle blue in the pitch darkness.

The blue veins didn't hurt when he pressed them, but neither did they feel good. If anything, a bone-deep itch resonated in the areas he ran his fingers over. They were smooth-faced and jagged-edged, and when Harry tried to follow a particularly deep crevice a lancet sting ran through his other hand. He clutched the offending finger in his mouth, tasting the metallic tartness of blood.

"Was it you who did that thing with Dudley?" he asked, voice barely more than a whisper. He wasn't quite sure whether it was the ring or the crystal streaks he was asking. Nevertheless, they both responded; the ring returned to its prior pulsing and hazy burning, while the veins burned brighter. "Think I can do it again?"

Neither answered. Harry ignored the lack of an answer and cast back to when Dudley had picked up the ring. He'd been so _angry_ , so tired of Dudley taking everything that was his and _breaking_ it. His hand had smarted at the time, adding a confusing layer of pain and clarity to the situation, but underneath everything…

He felt a tug in his gut. The crystal shards in his hand flared. An oscillating surge of _something_ exploded from out of his hand, barreling right into the door and rattling it on his hinges. A placid light guttered out from the wave, even though it was just barely enough to be noticeable in the first place.

Beneath everything there had been a current, a rushing river of white and blue and black and gold, and submerged within had been his crystals and the ring. He grasped at it, pushing and pulling. Nothing made a difference, though, and when he simply released it another blast of pure force expelled from his palm, this time snapping his head up and knocking him back on his bed.

Again, he got the feeling the ring was laughing at him. He pushed back, knocking it into the open drawer of his little desk.

Harry stood up, feeling oddly winded. The crystal traces pushing out of his skin were brilliant, burning an almost white color in the dark. "Time for another idea, maybe?" he told the ring.

For the next hour, Harry leafed through the book, deciphering everything he could about whatever had happened to him. Even in the newer sections of the book, written in the sort-of English he could understand (even if it took a few minutes to decipher each sentence at first), he forced himself to pore over the text.

A grand total of nothing greeted him at the end of the hour. Harry growled in frustration and closed the book, absently pushing it with his new power. Sharp, irritable snarls bubbled from his stomach. Maybe if he had a bit more food in his belly, he'd be able to figure out just how to do… whatever it was that he did.

Harry's eyes alighted on the door, and a small smile slipped over his face.

Unlocking the knob itself was an easy task; even though Uncle Vernon had ordered one with a lock on the outside, the locksmith had adamantly refused to install the door unless there was a lock on the inner knob as well. Even if there wasn't, he was getting better at picking locks, and he was second-best at the one on his cupboard—after the back door to Number Four, that is. The real problem had always been the deadbolt that Uncle Vernon had installed when he discovered that Harry was sneaking out to grab scraps from the fridge.

Harry simply pressed his hand to the door and visualized his _push_ moving through the door as best he could. The lock rattled, a blossom of scorched wood appeared where his fingers were planted, but it didn't budge. Harry tried again, feeding a bit of the frustration that was steadily building in his gut into his magic.

The brass bolt rattled again, and this time when he tried to push it open the door glided soundlessly on its hinges. Harry suppressed a whoop of excitement, instead slipping the door back to its proper place and weaving around Dudley's various knickknacks scattered in the hallway. His stomach growled, but he grinned at it and patted it good-naturedly. "Give me just a moment," he promised. Harry only stopped to duck back into his cupboard and grab the ring—was it _sulking?_ —and the book and slip back out.

Raiding the fridge for the first time in two years was _glorious_.

As he'd been out, Aunt Petunia had obviously been the one in charge of dinner that night. Unflattering comments could be proclaimed for miles about that woman, but if she didn't know how to cook then he was an Oracle. Harry snuck a few pieces of roast, some cauliflower and carrots, and even a thin slice of _chocolate cake_. Everything was lukewarm, and he didn't dare use the microwave for fear that Uncle Vernon would wake up and discover him, but it was much better than the nasty lunches or the burned pieces of toast he got for breakfast.

Harry smiled and rubbed his full stomach, absently wiping away a little dribble of juice from the roast with his fork. The ring stayed silent, though its usual hazy intensity wasn't much of a far cry from disapproval. Or maybe he was just projecting.

"I don't eat that much anyway," he said, mouth set in a delighted grin. "My stomach's not big enough. At least, that's what Will said happens to you if you don't eat a lot of food."

The ring didn't respond, so he set about clearing what he could from the table. Thankfully, the water rushing through the plumbing didn't make nearly as much noise as the rattling deadbolt did. In a scant few seconds, he was already turning on his heels, ready to head back to his cupboard and test out his magic more.

Dudley blinked owlishly at him, reaching for a frying pan. Harry swore softly, something that earned him a yelp from Dudley, and dove for the ring. He caught it, but not before Dudley managed to swing the frying pan. It smacked across his knuckles.

"Ow!" he whispered. It really _did_ hurt, even though he couldn't feel any blood running down his fingers. Dudley raised the frying pan again, this time like a cricket bat. Harry just stepped back, his aching fingers grasping at the back wall.

"Get back here!" Dudley crowed. Harry winced, though it became a wicked smile when he found what he was looking for. Harry pulled with his left and pushed with his right. A simple spin and a leap was all it took for him to unlock the sliding door to the back garden and dash out.

Harry didn't bother checking to see if Dudley followed—if Dudley was Dudley, he would definitely give chase. He dropped the ring in its pocket and leapt, scrabbling over the fence with stinging hands. Behind him, Dudley grunted and pushed at something. _'Probably the gate,'_ Harry thought wildly. ' _Gotta get away from Privet Drive.'_

Just because Privet Drive was practically deserted at night didn't mean it was any easier for Harry to get away. If anything, the radiance of his crystal-infused hand practically made him a beacon. Harry heard a triumphant bark through the surge of wind in his ears. So Dudley had made it past the gate after all.

The moment he could, Harry banked into a sharp right turn, his eyes on the road. A car rumbled past him, the driver wide-eyed and slamming on the brakes, but Harry merely tore his gaze away and kept running. A minute later a tremendous honk almost startled him off his feet.

"If we can do that invisible thing," he roared to the ring, "now would be a _really_ good time!" Harry cast his mind back to that sensation spreading from his hand, almost like a jagged film spreading along his body. In front of his eyes, the illumined patches of his skin dissolved into fragments of glass. No, not glass, _crystal_.

When Harry was sure the glass substance had finished flying away from him, he leapt across the street and made a hard stop in front of a lamppost. Dudley turned the corner. Harry tensed, just in case the spell hadn't worked like intended. True to form, Dudley ran past him, a flashlight sparking in his free hand.

Light flooded the street, and Harry had to check to make sure he wasn't casting a shadow. A pair of headlights thundered down the street. Dudley froze.

"You idiot!" Harry whispered, wincing as the movement of his lips sent a shiver of static over his skin. "Get out of the road!" In his pocket, the ring's heat vanished, becoming an effervescent chill that burned wintergreen in his nose and froze his bones. Dudley didn't move. Harry could see his eyes flashing, the whites almost painfully bright from the beams of the headlights.

The car screamed, its brakes grinding a terrible cry against the pavement, but Harry knew it wasn't going to be enough. The driver was easily going eighty on a forty kilometer-per-hour road. Harry had seen that kind of speed only once before, when Uncle Vernon had made him follow along to one of Aunt Petunia's shopping trips. Braking that quickly just _didn't happen_.

"I hate you _so_ much!" He wasn't sure if he shouted that to Dudley or himself, but it tore from his lips as he bolted down the sidewalk. "Ring, if you've got something that can help, do it!"

If anything, the ring seemed to grow even colder, permeating the air around him with a layer of fog and frost. Harry scowled and allowed the invisibility spell to fall away; he'd been able to see his outline in the mist anyway. "What, you don't want to?" He scowled and ran harder. The driver was closing in fast. Maybe—just maybe—he'd be able to make it to Dudley before the car did. The ring practically scalded, so cold that Harry could feel the frost forming on his pants.

' _What's the point?'_ it seemed to say. ' _He's useless_.'

"I don't care if he's useless or not," Harry growled, "because saving him is _the right thing to do!_ It's what Noct would do!"

The chill vanished as rapidly as it had appeared. The ring heated up tremendously, sending the frost on his pants into a sizzle. If it seemed reluctant, Harry didn't care. He simply followed instinct, grabbed the only other thing in his pocket, and lobbed it.

The fork he'd commandeered from the Dursleys sailed through the air, blue-tinged magic racing along its edge. When it passed Dudley, Harry _flew_ , his muscles jerked forward by an unseen force. Existence quieted for a brief instant, then became a rush of sound, color, and stinging, minty chill once more. Harry barreled into Dudley, throwing them both clear of the car. He hit the ground hard, fire racing up his knees, but he managed to avoid the wheel of the car when it squealed to a stop.

Someone screamed in the distance, but Harry ignored that. Muscles screamed in his arms and legs, their heat comparable to the fiery intensity the ring was radiating. He jerked himself to the right, wincing when his arm catapulted into the asphalt. Beside him, Dudley's heavy breaths were a match for his own, quick and arrhythmic.

"You saved me," Dudley rasped. Harry looked back on the experience. Indeed, between all of the disorienting spurts of darkness and his communing with the ring, he _had_ saved Dudley. But why? "Why did you save me? I woulda been hit."

"Yeah," Harry managed. "Yeah, you would."

The shouts became more distant, and Harry raised his aching head. Two men stared down at them, one old and grey, the other dark and rosy. Harry had the strangest feeling they weren't in their right minds. "You alright, lad?" the older one asked. He stretched out his hand, and grinning gratefully, Harry took it. "Rosier, give the other boy a hand and go find Steven. Bleedin' idiot ran off somewhere by Riverstone."

The dark-haired man, Rosier, nodded and pulled Dudley to his feet. Harry noticed his white-knuckled grip, free of the frying pan. Aunt Petunia wouldn't be happy in the morning… if she hadn't already been woken up by Dudley's shout.

"Cunt-swallowing lemon," the old man cursed. "How many times have I told 'im not to run off? An' after 'e nearly killed the two a ye, no less. No bruises, no scrapes?"

"I'm sore," Harry muttered, and Dudley mumbled his agreement. "But other than that, I think we're fine. Thanks, sir."

"M'not a sir, boy," the man growled good-naturedly. "They don't make Irishmen sirs. They make us pubs, and we drink 'em all under the table!" He barked out a laugh that made Harry jump. "You're gonna call me somethin', call me Claff."

Harry nodded, with a mumbled, "I'm Harry," but Dudley stood tall against the man. Granted, he still only reached Claff's abdomen—the man was _massive_ , easily twice as tall as Harry was—but it was an impressive sentiment nonetheless. "What kind of name is Claff?" Dudley asked. It was barren of his usual derision, however, and Harry couldn't discern whether it was because Claff was older and taller or because Dudley's knees were still shaking.

Claff snorted. "You got a better one, then?"

"I'm Dudley, and that's Po—Harry."

Even as Claff guffawed, Harry stared. His name on Dudley's tongue was absolutely foreign; the only time he could remember Dudley saying it was when he was in School with Piers and Malcolm, and even then he was still referred to as the "boy" more than half of the time. Dudley saying his name without any malice in his voice… it was _weird_.

"Yer tellin' me that Dudley's not as strange a name as Claff? Yer daft, boy. Maybe just a bit young for wisdom, but yer especially daft." Claff simply turned to Harry. "How about you? Gonna make fun of my name s'well? I got a few choice things to say 'bout a few choice Harrys. You gonna add to the list?"

Harry shook his head, catching a figure approaching from the corner of his eye. With how bad his eyes were, it took him a moment to recognize Rosier. The man's dark jacket and hair, as well as his dull brown eyes, made him nearly invisible in the dark. Out of reflex, he tried to gather the feeling of fragmented film, only allowing it to envelop his hand before it dispelled. Harry wedged his glowing digits in his pocket, just in case.

"Found 'im, Claff," Rosier announced. Behind him stood a man with a thick blond beard and nervous, crinkled eyes. Claff stomped up to Steven and grabbed him by his denim jackcet. Rosier backed away, towing Harry and Dudley with him. "You might want to cover your ears, boys."

Harry felt an almost inappropriate amount of excitement at the prospect of hearing a new swear word. Beside him, Dudley leaned forward. A tiny fraction of his mind wondered just how unusual a situation had to be for the two of them to sit next to each other without Dudley trying to throttle him.

The verbal lashing Claff gave Steven was astounding.

Harry almost reeled back after the first few words were out of the old man's mouth. He and Dudley both gaped as the torrent or curses went on for one minute, then five. By the time Claff had cleared his throat and turned away in a huff, Steven was shivering in his boots. The bright red tint on his face didn't help much, nor did the fact that he stumbled over nothing every few seconds.

"Sorry ye had to see that, boys, but Steven never really gets things unless ye give it to 'im straight," Claff said jovially. "Thank God we just 'ad the brakes checked, at any rate. Anything I can do to make up the scare to ye?"

Dudley shook his head, but Harry paused. The ring, seemingly sensing the opportunity began to warm up again in his pocket. "Do… do you think you could drive me to Buckingham Palace Road?" he asked tentatively.

Claff blinked. "Well, I certainly _could_ ," he admitted. "'If I remember right, 's only an hour's drive from here. But I must needs ask, why? Ye could take the Woking station and be there faster 'n that."

Harry winced. Dudley _couldn't_ know about how valuable the ring was, not if he wanted it to survive the journey to the Queen in one piece. "I have a friend," he blurted. "That lives near Buckingham Palace Road. He left this with me," he showed them the book, its cover completely unscathed by the close call, "and I want to return it as soon as possible."

"He goin' ta be awake at this hour?" Claff probed. "Pretty late out. Pretty moon, too."

Harry glanced up, noting the admittedly pretty moon watching them with pearlescent steadfastness. He nodded. "His dad works days and homeschools him at night." Not the most believable lie he'd ever told, nor the most well-executed, but it seemed to be enough for Claff.

"And yer parents, they're okay with it?"

Or not. Harry almost scowled, but he caught himself just before the corners of his mouth could curl downwards. The ring warmed a bit. The urge to frown grew. After a few stilted seconds of silence, Harry decided on the truth. "Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon don't like me much," he admitted. "I think they'll be happy to have me out of their hair for a day. I've been gone for an entire day before—a bunch of times—and they only worry about my chores not getting done."

Claff's eyes sparked a luminescent blue against the night. Before Harry could wonder if he'd done anything wrong, He was turning to Dudley. "Right, then. You coming along too, boy?" Harry's head snapped around to where Dudley was nodding slowly.

"Yeah," was all that Dudley said.

"I'm gonna be accused of kidnapping fer this," Claff muttered. "Eh, who cares. Got too much in my system to worry righ' now. Everyone load up!"

Harry quietly sandwiched himself between Dudley and Steven in the back, wondering if he was going to be nudged and bumped for the entire drive to Buckingham Palace Road. He tried to shift, and a sharp pain lanced through his thigh. "Bugger," he grunted to the ring.

It merely cooled under his fingers.


	4. Chapter 4

The ride to Buckingham Palace Road was one filled with sharp jabs from all sides. Dudley didn't bother minding Harry's personal space, and he showed it whenever he wanted to budge around even slightly. Needless to say, once every minute or so Harry would find himself pressed even further into his seat than before until he was practically one with it. Steven was swaying on the spot, and while he hadn't thrown up on the journey he looked dangerously close to doing so a few times. Even the ring seemed to be having its fun with him; whenever Dudley tried to adjust, the ring would pulse back with a sharp flare of heat, as though to provoke him into attacking his cousin. Thankfully, Dudley couldn't feel the intense warmth emanating from the smooth metal, though Harry was sure any leg hair he might have had was thoroughly singed off.

Rosier spoke animatedly with both of them, and while Harry didn't respond much and he spent more of his time simply staring out of Steven's window than not, he was smiling. Rosier told funny jokes, often at either Claff's or Steven's expense, and his warm grin found Harry amused more than once. Dudley, in contrast, talked all about his toys, his school, and his friends. Harry's mouth turned downwards when he remembered how he'd knocked Piers to the ground.

All the while, Claff was silent. Sometimes, Harry could catch him staring in the rearview mirror. He never looked away like the kids at school did when their eyes met. Instead, Claff's eyes only narrowed a bit. Harry turned his head every time.

After what felt like hours Claff pulled off to a different road. Harry stared out of Steven's window, the older man having finally fallen asleep with his head against the headrest. He'd only been to London once, and that was when Mrs. Figg had been ill and Uncle Vernon had a business convention to attend. He'd ordered everyone out of the house at once, even Harry, and holed them all up in a hotel room in Greater London. Harry had, of course, not been allowed out of the room for the entire trip.

But even at night, London was a sight to behold. Lights scattered around the city, seeming more like stars than anything else. Harry watched a group of cyclists ride past. The reflective tape on their wheels flashed pleasantly, and he brought up a finger to trace the wheels of orange-white light. He pulled his hand down when he noticed Dudley staring at him, but his cousin didn't do anything.

"Buckingham Palace Road," Claff announced eventually. Harry started; were they there already? It had only seemed like a few minutes since they'd entered London proper. "I'll be waiting for you two right here. Go to your friend's house, give them the book, and come _right back_ , you hear?"

Harry nodded quickly, Dudley following at a more sedate pace. He winced when he pushed himself out of the car. Stevens hadn't woken up, but his leg had fallen asleep, and between the warm radiation of the ring and the pins in his thigh, he stumbled a few times.

"What happens now?" Dudley asked. Harry frowned. Claff had been kind enough to drive them all the way to London, true, but he was still expecting them back after a few minutes. If it took too long, he'd follow, and Harry was fairly sure that between running for his life twice in the day, doing _whatever_ it was that had sent him careening into Dudley's prone form, and the late hour, he wouldn't be able to outrun the man.

"I need to get somewhere they can't follow," he muttered. He started moving towards an apartment a street away, his steps deliberate. Dudley followed a second later. "Somewhere high up, where I can get a good view of the palace."

"You're not trying to break into Buckingham Palace, are you?" Dudley asked, incredulous. Harry rolled the ring in his pocket before slipping his hand out. The crystals glowed softly in the night, barely visible under the luminance of a number of streetlamps.

"You wouldn't understand," Harry said after a moment. "This is something I have to do."

"You're going to get yourself killed," Dudley whispered furiously. Harry stepped away, noting how Dudley's hands were clenching into fists.

"And since when have you ever cared about that?" Harry snarled, stopping briefly. The fork he'd stolen jumped in his hands, laced with an azure aura. "You and Uncle Vernon take every opportunity to hit me or yell at me just because I'm not _normal_. Don't think I don't know—I know it was me that blew out the lights in gym class last years, I know it was me that turned Ms. Wilkins' wig blue. Aunt Petunia's only a little bit better."

"Don't you insult my parents, freak," Dudley sneered. "They're way better than you are."

"I don't know why I saved your life," Harry retorted, angling the fork high. He wasn't a fantastic thrower, but the balcony he was aiming for presented a near-perfect target. The blue glow suddenly strengthened around the fork. "I don't know why you're here, either. If you wanted to come to London you should have just asked Uncle Vernon. He'd take you in a heartbeat."

Harry lobbed the fork. It flew unnaturally straight, cutting through the air with velocity it shouldn't have been able to achieve. Harry only had a split-second to notice how the stone-grey exterior of the balcony, rimmed with columns and bricks, caught the blue light attractively before a hand clamped down on his shoulder and he vanished into nothingness.

He reappeared with his knees on the cold stone. Judging by the startled shout in his ear, Dudley had come along for the ride as well. "What the bloody hell was that?" he squeaked, voice shrill. Harry whapped him on the shoulder with an absent hiss to be quiet. Instead, he focused on the headlights that had just flashed on at the other end of the street. Claff's car started up, driving sluggishly down the road. Harry could see Rosier leaning out the passenger-side window, calling for him and Dudley.

"Harry, what the _fuck_ —"

"Language!" Harry grunted. "And stop calling me by name, it's weird."

"Then answer me!" Dudley growled. His hand tightened on Harry's shoulder. Fire lit within Harry's chest, stronger than he'd ever felt from the ring. It burned bright and hot, so _powerfully_ , straining to escape. Every inch of his body burned in tandem with the next, blue-white flame trickling through his veins, welling inside his marrow.

Harry clamped down on the feeling brutally. The fire still raged inside, but with a bit of self-control it turned inwards, compressing, collecting. He turned to Dudley, pulling his shoulder away. His cousin stared.

"Why are you here, Dudley?" Harry asked again. The flames began to elongate inside him, then _outside_ him. A single line of energy, so bright it could compare to the flare of the ring, lay unmoving in his hand. A stream of glowing blue sparks shed from its edge, a fire that caught on the stone and created a flickering half-moon at his feet. "Hurry up and answer; this is making me tired."

"I don't know!" Dudley admitted finally. "I was going to go home but then there was something that _told_ me to go with you, and I don't know why."

Harry scowled and dipped his free hand in his pocket. True to form, the diamond centred in the ring blazed with inner light. "Why do I have the feeling you had something to do with this?" he asked it sarcastically. The ring didn't change, though he couldn't tell if it was simply inert or the intensity of his light-lance was overpowering the temperature differences he'd begun to become used to.

"Well, if the ring wants you along, I won't say no," Harry grunted. "Just… be careful, okay? I don't know if you can use magic like I can, so keep hold of me when I say so."

"Don't tell me what to—"

Harry stuffed the ring back in its pocket and grabbed Dudley by the arm. "I don't have time for this!" he snapped, raising his hand. The light-lance glittered, though it was quickly overpowered by a streaming pair of headlights from below. Harry, against all better judgment, looked down.

Claff's eyes stared back at him, unnaturally bright. "Boy!" he roared. A few lights flicked on in response to his shout. "You get down here _now_!"

"Sorry, Claff," Harry murmured. He focused on the palace, trying to remember every detail he'd seen of it on the television. With a heavy grip on the still-struggling Dudley, he launched the lance.

It speared across the night, bringing a brief moment of day wherever it flew. Swaths of night parted before its passing and closed in its wake, though the moon and streetlamps still illuminated the streets evenly. Harry watched it cut through sheets of coalescing fog and—in the far edge of his abnormally bad vision—an actual bolt of cloth hung from a building. The beacon eventually came to a stop, embedded in a pillar in the near distance. He concentrated on that tenuous connection, the same feeling he'd experienced with the fork.

This time, raw light consumed him and Dudley instead of darkness. He was thankful Dudley had stayed quiet when they passed through the veil between the two balconies, because he was certainly close to shouting. Stabbing pain assaulted his eyes, even though he didn't _have_ eyes, or ears, or _anything_ for that matter.

Reality asserted itself once more, and Harry dove for cover just as a shadow passed by a window. He sighed in relief when he realized it was just Claff's car, moving past a light.

"Oh, Claff!" Harry groaned. "Dudley, you alright? We have to get somewhere safe before Claff worms his way in here!"

Dudley grunted, but he followed when Harry picked the window lock and slid it open. The thing was damn hard to manage, and it took him nearly two tense minutes with more than a dozen spare paperclips inserted into the book, but eventually they rolled onto the floor of Buckingham Palace's second level.

"Aren't there patrols?" Dudley asked. "Dad told me about them—apparently they do it all the time in Buckingham Palace, and Windsor Castle too. Something about this place being a 'monumental historical landmark' or something like that."

"If there are, they won't find us," Harry promised. He glanced around and pressed his back against the wall. "Dudley, grab on to me again. I don't know if this'll work on you, but I can try."

"You're _weird_ , Potter," Dudley said. Still, he placed a considerably gentler hand on Harry's shoulder, and Harry focused back to the crystals in his hand. Just like before, shards of glassy crystal flew away from his body, starting at his fingertips and rapidly encroaching up his arms. Dudley let out a hiss that Harry just barely managed to quiet.

"At least it works with you too," Harry breathed. Then again, could he do it on _anyone_? His fingers came up, intent on caressing the nearest loose object—a picture framed carved from a beautifully rich wood—but he brought them away at the last second. "Dudley, you can still hear me, yeah?"

"Yeah," Dudley muttered somewhere to his right. "Blimey, this is odd. I can't see me, but I can _feel_ me, y'know? Like where my arms and legs are and stuff."

"You'll get used to it," Harry lied. He certainly hadn't, though it hadn't even been a day. "Just try and stick close to me. You'll probably be able to hear my footsteps."

Harry set off, and after a few moments he heard the gentle thumps of Dudley's feet against the carpet. They traveled in silence, Harry looking for anything that might be a lead to the queen. They must have passed dozens of rooms, each one ornately decorated and undoubtedly regal, before Dudley spoke up again. "What are we looking for, anyway?" he asked.

"The Queen, who else?" Harry shot back. Honestly, did Dudley _ever_ think? Who else would be in Buckingham Palace?

"Wha—you never told me we were going to see the Queen!" Dudley shouted. Harry made a shushing motion, then palmed his face and softly _shushed_. "Damn it, Potter, if I'd known you were going to do something _stupid…_ "

"It's not stupid," Harry said, fighting to keep the rising anger down. The ring warmed considerably in his pocket. He flicked at it, and it sullenly cooled again. "It's something that I have to do."

"Then why?"

"I can't tell you that!" Harry cried softly. Even without being able to see him, he knew Dudley was glaring at him and crossing his arms. It was the same thing he often did on his birthday, when there wasn't something he really wanted under the tree and Uncle Vernon had to go out and try to find one for him.

"You're going to tell me," Dudley's voice echoed matter-of-factly, "or I'll start making noise. And I won't stop until they catch both of us."

"Dudley, you prat!" Harry blindly swung, and was only partially disappointed when his fist met empty air. "Fine, we'll talk, but can we _please_ make it quick? I have places to be, and Uncle Vernon will have a fit if we're not back at the house by the time he wakes up." If he hadn't woken up already. Dudley's initial crowing had been enough to rouse the whole neighborhood.

"Don't act like you're important, Potter," Dudley said. "You're not."

"Just follow me into that room up ahead." Harry moved quickly and silently, wincing every time Dudley's heavy footfalls padded against the carpet. He opened the door, thankful that its hinges were oiled and well-used. An unused tea set lay inside, obviously forgotten from the layer of dust covering the pot. He sank into one of the chairs.

"It's weird, not being able to see you," Dudley said after a moment. "Can you take this stuff off?"

Harry frowned and allowed the magic to dissipate. It was more instinctual at this point than anything else, just like breathing. The pattern that the magic made through the crystals embedded in his skin flickered across his body and shattered into chunks of crystal that eroded to dust not a moment after.

Dudley's, however, was considerably harder to dispel.

Harry tried for a full five minutes, growing more and more agitated with each attempt, before he finally sagged. "I don't know if I can," he admitted. "It's easy to do it to me, but you're really hard to work with. It's like the magic its trying really hard to cling to you or something. I think you need to want to cancel it yourself for it to work."

"I don't have magic, though," Dudley said. He paused. "Wait, that's the stupidest thing I've ever heard. You don't have magic either! Only _cool_ people like the Great Humberto can use magic."

"I can leave you invisible," Harry grunted petulantly. "I'll leave you invisible and leave you in here and run away."

Dudley whined. A gust of dust blasted past Harry's face, and suddenly his cousin was visible again, if a little perturbed. Harry could see a bit of redness in his eyes; genuine irritation, not the crocodile tears he spilled whenever he wanted something and Aunt Petunia was in a loving mood.

"I did it," he breathed after a minute. "I actually did it."

"Congratulations," Harry muttered. "Now can we actually talk so I can go see the Queen?" Seeing Dudley raise a hand, he raised his own warily. "And if you try and hit me, I'll use one of those light things that I did earlier."

He wouldn't, but Dudley didn't need to know that. The invisibility hadn't taken much out of him, but the teleporting thing with the fork had left his muscles feeling sore and shaky. Doing it three times, not to mention making that light-lance, deposited a bone-deep chill that he hadn't even noticed until the raging flames emanating from his center had died down. Even then, he could feel a bright ember, little more than a few sparks but steadily building.

"Why do you want to talk to the Queen?" Dudley asked.

"It's a long story," Harry began, but on seeing Dudley's dangerous look, he quickly amended, "but I guess I can say it all now. So when Aunt Petunia woke me up a week ago, I had all my hair back from when she shaved it."

Harry told his story quickly, though it still transpired for more than ten minutes before he finally got to Claff. Once his throat was sore and he was breathing a bit more heavily than usual, he pulled the ring from his pocket. Dudley reached towards it, but it gave off a pulse of searing heat in warning. Harry didn't even flinch, though he was sure his skin would still be red in the morning.

"That's the ring, then?" Dudley probed. "The one I tried to take from you?" Harry nodded warily. The book was still safely stowed in the crook of his elbow, but if the ring suddenly decided to change his mind, he doubted he could overpower Dudley. "It looks cool. Cooler than it did before, with the shiny stone."

"Yeah, it does," Harry said after a moment. He almost immediately wanted to hit himself, if only on principle. Agreeing with his _cousin_? What was the world coming to?

"But why did that guy—Noct, you said his name was—why did he want you to bring that to the Queen of all people?" Dudley's feet scuffed against the ornate rug beneath their feet, a pair of gentle grooves left in their wake. "She's married, you know? Not that easy on the eyes anymore, either."

Harry had to stifle a snort. "No, it was something about continuing the line of Lucis, or something. See, I think his kingdom was a magical one from another planet or something, and when he finally beat the empire he was fighting he came here since everything was destroyed."

"So he didn't want to be king, but he wanted to keep his kingdom going," Dudley surmised. "And eh couldn't do it in his old one since it was blown up by that Niffy-something empire, so he decided to start a new one here. That still doesn't make sense, though. Why not just do it himself?"

"I dunno," Harry said. He reached for the tea tray before remembering it was empty. The light-lance had left him cold and aching, but more than anything he was _thirsty_. The only water he'd had all day was a small glass in the morning and at midnight each, and with all the running he did he'd probably burned through that and yesterday's intake as well.

"Didn't want to be king, but he stepped up anyway," Dudley muttered. He stood, shaking his legs out. "Other than the freaky magic thing, that Noct guy sounds pretty wicked. Wonder if he'll ever show up again?"

"Dudley," Harry began, a thought blossoming in the forefront of his thoughts. "Why did you follow me here?"

Dudley scoffed, but even the socially-inept Harry could see the traces of doubt in his eyes. "I already told you, I—"

"You were lying," Harry accused. Dudley hadn't been making much sense during the trip, and what he _did_ talk about pointedly avoided any thoughts of Harry Hunting and the like. Dudley was being unnervingly _nice_. "You're freaking me out, Dudley. You'd never want to come to London with me anyway, not when Uncle Vernon would take a day trip and buy you anything you wanted."

"Fine!" Dudley snapped. Harry leaned back warily; the thunderous expression on his face, complete with wrinkled forehead and confused grimace, seemed completely at odds with how relaxed his hands were. "I did it because I wanted to say sorry, okay?"

"Sorry?" Harry breathed. "What for?"

"For _everything_ ," Dudley stressed, waving his mostly-limp arms about. Harry couldn't see much of it in the faint light cast by the ring and his hand, but he had a brief imagining of Dudley trying to make finger puppers. "For nearly getting you hit by Claff's car and trying to bash your head in with a frying pan!"

"That's all well," Harry said dumbly, "but what exactly brought this on? You weren't very sorry when we were in the car."

Harry could have been imagining it, but he thought for a moment that Dudley's ears had turned red. His hand twitched, and the spotlight that had been on his cousin's face vanished, but the embarrassed tone remained. "A lot," Dudley admitted, his voice cracking harshly. "Gordon's cousin came over from Kent a few days ago, and there wasn't anything freaky about him. I asked why, and Gordon and Piers just gave me this weird look. Got me wondering why mum and dad don't like you."

"It's because of this, lummox," Harry grunted, holding up a hand. The crystals extruding from his veins throbbed with their inner light. He idly scraped off a bit of dried blood from the sharpest of the crystals, a spine that ran all the way from his wrist to the second knuckle of his ring finger.

"It's gotta be," Dudley agreed. "But they don't have any problems with the Great Humberto or that drama on the telly about wizards. They grumble a bit, yeah, but it's all you. And…" Dudley scratched the back of his head. "Looking back on it, you didn't seem to be doing anything wrong."

As much as he wanted to ignore Dudley and turn his attention back on the ring, Harry couldn't help but feel a bit of a chill run through his spine. Dudley had never, _ever_ been on his side. He went out of his way to put Harry at odds with everything he did, and Harry always got the blame for anything bad that Dudley did. So why the sudden change of heart? It couldn't be that Dudley was a genuinely good person. Could it?

"Dudley," Harry began warily.

"Well that's a touching story, truly, but can one of you explain what you're doing in my home?"

Harry winced and turned, fighting the urge to go invisible on the spot. Standing in the doorframe, short but stately and immense in presence, was an aging woman in a tartan nightgown disturbingly similar to Aunt Petunia's. Harry tried to find a word to describe the situation.

"Bugger."


	5. Chapter 5

Harry stared, his hand still in the air and facing the Queen. The fingers of his unmaimed hand curled protectively around the ring even as it scalded the air with excited heat. Out of the corner of his eye, he could just make out Dudley standing from his chair. His cousin was certainly more prepared than he was, in any case.

"Cormac, Aaron, if you could kindly come in," the Queen called down the hallway. Harry tensed, and almost as an afterthought, she added, "Oh, but holster your weapons. They don't appear to be a threat."

Not ten seconds later, the Queen practically glided away from the door. Two men in jet-black suits entered, their hands on their hips. Harry winced when he realized that there were guns beneath their palms, ready to be drawn at a moment's notice. The one on the left, the shorter of the two with auburn hair, noticed them first.

"You Majesty, I wasn't aware we were having guests," he said, his tone clipped and corded. Harry tried to sink into his seat, but he stiffened when the man's hand closed over his gun. "Are you sure they could be safe? You never know with kids. Might have bombs."

"Honestly, Cormac," the Queen muttered. "You're scaring them. And what kind of children would be able to get into Buckingham Palace was something as volatile as a bomb strapped to their chest, never mind two? They'd blow themselves up before they got into London with how inquisitive they are."

' _Somehow, I get the feeling she's making fun of me,'_ Harry thought weakly. He tried to well up the fragments of defiance that were still scattered around his mind and stood. In an instant, Cormac's gun was trained at his heart, and the other man's at Dudley's. He stepped forward slowly, the book in his hand and the ring hastily shoved in his pocket.

"Your Majesty," he began, thanking whatever deity existed that he didn't stutter. "I come on behalf of King Noctis Lucis Caelum CXIV, Last of his Name, regent of the Kingdom of Lucis, Protector of the Crystal. I am here to deliver a message and a gift, in goodwill to the one chosen to take up the Light and be granted the Crystal's power."

A single trimmed eyebrow rose at the declaration, and Harry allowed himself a quick moment to breathe. He'd practiced that almost the entire time he was in the car, thinking of the best words he'd learned from the various dictionaries he'd skimmed in the library.

"You speak some interesting words for a kid," Aaron muttered. He didn't lower his gun, but he did turn his eyes toward Harry. "And some nonsensical ones at that. How old are you, boy?"

"I'm getting real tired of being called boy," Harry growled. More loudly, he said, "My name is Harry, and this is Dudley."

"No last names?" Cormac said mildly. Harry recognized this routine from one of the dramas Aunt Petunia loved to leave on the television when Uncle Vernon was at work. He almost liked the "good cop, bad cop" approach, if only because he was used to the bad cop the whole way around.

"Harry Potter and Dudley Dursley," Harry grudgingly admitted. The Queen's other eyebrow rose, though he could barely see that far. None of the lights had been flicked on. It wasn't hard to figure out why; his hand was glowed brightly in the dimness of night, and it wouldn't be hard to put a few bullet holes in his chest if the only light source in the room came attached to his arm.

Almost as though he'd been reading Harry's thoughts, Dudley managed to whisper, "Can we turn the lights on please?"

Cormac almost started, but with a glance and a nod at the Queen, he lowered his gun briefly to flick on the lightswitch next to the door. A burst of yellowing color illuminated Harry's eyes. He placed his crystal-laced hand on his forehead, trying to rub away the sudden splitting ache in his head.

Now that he could get a good look at the room, it seemed much smaller than he'd first thought. Even for a tea room it was cramped; with all the furniture and five people scattered across the rug, there was barely any space to move. His hands crept away from his forehead when Cormac's gun trained back on him, this time staring straight down his face.

The safety clicked off when his fingers curled around the ring in his pocket. Harry brought it out slowly. The ring practically vibrated in his grip, releasing waves of heat so intense he was surprised his skin hadn't burst into flames yet. A single white-hot ember radiated from the center of the ring, cradled by black and silver metals. "The Ring of the Lucii," he breathed. "Granted to Queen Elizabeth Bowes-Lyon, Second of her Name, in hopes of rekindling the Light and reforging the Crystal once more."

A shuddering breath left his lungs. ' _Where did that come from?'_ he thought wildly, eyes still trained on the flaring diamond embedded in the ring. Bluish sparks crackled and fizzed through the air around it. He heard a second click, and there was an instant of fear before it was subsumed by the immense warmth of the Crystal fragment in the ring. His veins pulsed in unison, burning blue, then white, then an unimaginably deep gold.

"Put the ring down," Cormac warned, his eyes hard. "Your Majesty, I must insist you return to your quarters." A number of unspoken things seemed to pass between Cormac and Aaron, even though neither of them so much as glanced at the other. "Aaron, double the guard around Her Majesty's chambers. Make sure one of them is trained in defusing explosives."

Aaron nodded and backed towards the door, but before he could move more than a few feet back the ring rose. It caught fire above Harry's palm, familiar azure tendrils licking at the metal. "Granted by the King of Lucis," he intoned, lips moving of their own accord. "Be the Light that sheds grace on the world."

Luckily, he could still move his head. Dudley appeared to be thunderstruck when he whipped his head towards his cousin, eyes wide and bloodshot. There was a note of longing in his brown eyes that Harry was all too familiar with. Dudley's legs tensed, probably a quick motion to grab it, but as if sensing danger, the ring floated forward.

Crystal shed in its wake, chunks of glimmering, clear, resonant gemstone that sparkled in the firelight. Harry caught one between his fingers, heedless of the gun that was still pointing at his face. It melted in his hand to become a sifting pile of glittering dust. He allowed it to slip through his fingers and stared at the ring as it wafted towards the Queen.

Aaron, his dark hair flapping wildly as he dove for the ring, managed to get within a few feet of it. Harry turned and yelled for him to stop, but the ring moved quickly, speeding up and barely avoiding the grab. In response, a tendril of blue fire emerged from the mass of light and struck Aaron across the chest. Ignoring his cry of pain—a familiar scream, one that he'd echoed not a day before—Harry watched with mortified fascination as the flames traveled across Aaron's torso. Crystal grew from skin in its wake, piercing through any of the suit that hadn't been burned in a grisly diagonal slash. The veins pulsed once, twice, three times in their haste to crawl to the surface. Cormac snarled and raised his gun. Echoes of gunshots, strangely slow and muffled, reached Harry's ears, but he couldn't see a muzzle flash or an impact. The ring simply continued to burn brighter and brighter.

In the middle of it all stood the Queen, eyes as flat and unfazed as ever. Her eyebrows had sunk into something akin to concentration, though Harry couldn't quite tell with the even layer of light the ring was shedding across the entire room. She reached out, fingers only a scant few inches away from the ring. Fire, so hot Harry could barely stand being in the same room, blazed in her outstretched palm.

She slipped it over the middle finger of her left hand, and the world vanished.

Harry blinked. Instantaneous darkness was something he was beginning to become accustomed to, despite his attempts _not_ to. After the fork and the light-lance, he even braced himself for some sort of change in orientation. None of it came, however, and light didn't suddenly blossom around him once more like it had for the others.

Just pure, impenetrable blackness, with only himself, Aaron, and the Queen still around.

"Well," the Queen said, her tome prim. "This is unexpected. Are you severely injured, Aaron? Will we need to take you to a physician?"

"Don't think so, Your Majesty," Aaron said gruffly, rubbing at his chest. "Other than whatever the hell—my apologies, Your Majesty—this is on my chest, I feel fine. _Better_ than fine, actually. Question we should be asking is what happened to Cormac and the other boy."

"And why Mr. Potter accompanied us to this place, and not Mr. Dursley or Cormac," the Queen added. She turned a disarmingly sweet smile in Harry's direction. "There was something curious about your hand, I recall. Something you didn't want us to see."

Harry nodded, but he made no move to show them the hand still shoved in his pocket. It was only when Aaron's gun came up once again, though it was shaking with every breath, that Harry showed them the back of his palm. The Queen peered at his crystal-laced hand for a moment, then turned to Aaron. "It seems we have our answer to both questions," she said. "It seems that whoever is in possession of these interesting crystals have made the journey to this place."

"The Proving Grounds," Harry gasped, whipping his head from side to side. Aaron stepped forward, his footfall silent in the encroaching darkness. "Sorry—er, it was what Noct called the place where the next king is judged. The Proving Grounds."

"As fit a name as any, I suppose," another voice said. This time, Aaron didn't hesitate before firing off a few shots into the bleak distance. "Now, that was rude. I'm certain my son didn't give this ring out just so I could be shot."

Slowly, a man clad in pale white armor emerged from the darkness. As though he was a ghost, he appeared in smoke; one moment there was naught but darkness, the next a wispy, ephemeral outline of a king stood outside of their circle. A second figure joined him not moments later, clad in armor just as ornate. Pauldrons and greaves and all sorts of metals were wrought with incredible precision, produced by wisps of smoke so fine they could barely be called threads.

"This is the next king of Lucis?" the second figure asked, watching the Queen carefully. He shook his head. "She is too old; she will be unable to maintain the Wall for more than three years before wasting away."

"The Wall fell, old man," a third voice entered. Harry stared up at the newest figure, approaching from the darkness with a confidence reserved for brazenness. His gait was familiar, and somehow, through the intricate armor and gleaming wisps of fog, Harry knew that he was staring at Noctis Lucis Caelum. "The Wall fell years ago. Lucis is a shattered ruin."

More armored individuals approached from the emptiness, first one, then five, then twenty. A full hundred and more stepped forward, growing in number and size until one hundred and fourteen individuals encircled the three of them. Harry called on his light-lance, just in case. It sucked most of the returning warmth from his bones, but by the time it was finished forming, he could feel power buzzing along the edges of his skin.

"Your Majesty, please step away from the—ghosts." To his credit, Aaron only stumbled on the word "ghosts" a bit before regaining his composure. The heat of the ring didn't seem to bother him quite as much as it had before, and the fire practically ignored the Queen. No, Harry could see it encroaching, just extremely slowly. It had barely reached the base of her knuckle in the several minutes it took for the spirits to gather.

"Tosh, Aaron," the Queen snorted. "Whatever they are, they can't well run us through yet. See?" Without the slightest hint of hesitation she strode over to Noctis and swiped a hand through him. Noctis let out an unamused grunt, but the Queen retreated to Aaron with a satisfied smile.

"Noctis," Harry muttered. The light-lance didn't dissipate, but Harry found himself staring up at the armored man. "I found her."

"That you did, Harry Potter. That you did. Now," he said, more loudly. The spirits, which had all been making some form of quiet noise, fell utterly silent. "It is time to judge the next king of the Lucii. There are no more members left to the Lucian line, so, as I propose, our legacy of Ring and Crystal be passed to the Bowes-Lyon line, of which King Elizabeth is the next progenitor."

"Ah, but there is one amongst our number missing," the original king called. Immediately, a murmur ran through the circle of kings, most portraying some mention of distaste.

"He is not a king, Regis!" the second man exclaimed. It was only when he slammed it down that Harry realized he was holding an absolutely monstrous sword. "There is no precedent for this type of event. The Lucian line has died, true, but _he_ does not get to influence its successors."

"Nyx Ulric gave his life for Lucis!" Regis roared back, startling everyone present. Even the Queen blinked and stepped back from Regis' furiously glowing form. "He dealt the empire a crippling blow and uprooted the seeds of corruption from our city even as Insomnia was destined to fall. He will be making this choice with us, and that is the final word on this matter!"

"Thank you for the vote of confidence, Your Majesty," a new voice said calmly, almost amused. "If you don't mind, I think I'll stand next to you."

The figure that broke through the crowd of armored kings was smaller than the rest, not as well-defined. His smoky outline was smudged slightly, and there was no ornate tracery on his armor. However, he still stood tall and confident, if a little crouched. "It's an honor to assist in choosing the next of the Lucian line," he said, nodding to the outraged king. "I may not be a king of Lucis, but I fought my hardest and I did what I could."

"The same could be said of many of your fellow Kingsglaive," the king growled.

"But they weren't the ones who activated the Old Wall, were they?" the new figure, Nyx, interrupted. "You were the one who gave me the power to fight, and everyone who receives the Ring's power is Inscribed into the Ring at their death. You were the one who was gifted this power, so you must take responsibility for it."

The king almost stepped forward. Noctis strode quickly across the platform, his massive armored boot passing clean through Harry, and placed a hand on his shoulder. "Poenus," he said, his voice both quiet and booming. "Allow him to assist. We are missing a king as it is, and I can think of no better man than Nyx to stand in Ardyn's place."

Poenus fell silent. "I was not a man who saw reason in those days," he said eventually. "And I will not see it now. But should he wish it, Nyx Ulric will be allowed to substitute for Ardyn Lucis Caelum in the Judgment of Kings."

Nyx stood back, his hazy outline sharpening just slightly before dimming back to its usual indistinct cloud. "Then we shall proceed, with all one hundred and fourteen kings present. Each will judge, and in turn, each will be judged. Step forward, Bearer of the Ring."

Harry almost moved, but a sharp look from Noctis had him frozen. The Queen approached Poenus calmly, her eyes glittering and hard. Her gait didn't betray anything, though Harry thought he saw the faintest of tremors run through her spine before she steadied herself.

Poenus took one look at her, then stepped back. "She is worthy," he said. He vanished into a flicker of rising smoke, only to be replaced by the next king in the circle. Another moment passed, followed by the same line.

For more than twenty minutes, Harry barely dared to breathe. Each one of the kings of Lucis—many of whom, he realized, were very clearly female—moved towards the Queen, whether they merely looked into her eyes or placed a hand on her shoulder. Every single one of them found her worthy, but of what he couldn't discern. Aaron somehow came to rest beside him sometime during the ordeal. The light from their crystals mingled oddly, as though it wafted towards the kings in a blurry swirl rather than straight beams.

Finally, Noctis stepped up to take his place next to the Queen. Despite what Harry thought, he didn't just look at her and declare her worthy. He sat, reclining on the air as though it were a chair, and steepled his gauntleted fingers. "It seems as though you've earned my predecessors' respect," he said after a moment. "You must be confused. Please, take a seat yourself, and I shall explain. You as well, Harry, and your companion on the floor."

Harry started. He darted to the semicircle Noctis had managed to indicate, taking a seat on hard light. It didn't even begin to bend under his weight, though it felt so light he could pick up the invisible construct effortlessly. Aaron moved more slowly, rubbing at his chest, but eventually he sat as well. Only the Queen remained standing. "Even if one offers a seat," she said when Nyx nodded to her, "I think I shall stand."

"Well said," Noctis replied, a wry smile in his voice. Harry blinked away his confusion and focused more intently on the lines forming Noctis' helm. They weren't as clear as the intricate filigree inscribed into Poenus' or even Regis', but there was an air of elegance to them that the other kings lacked. Even the most graceful among them, a woman dressed in robes instead of armor that practically glided along the pure black ground, couldn't match the relaxed posture of the king in front of him.

"I must thank you, Harry," Noctis admitted. "I only passed on a week past, and you still managed to find my successor in record time. The Ring of the Lucii… well, its choices aren't always what I agree with, but I think it has made the right choice when it comes to this one." He turned towards the Queen, still not removing his helmet or armor. "You see, Elizabeth, my kingdom was once a vast presence on Eos…"

The story Noctis told corroborated the tale the book had given him, if with a few bits and pieces of history that were left out of the text. Where Harry's story took a good ten minutes to tell to Dudley, Noctis' took well over thirty, and by the end even his ghostlike form sounded a bit out of breath.

"Forgive me if I don't believe you on the spot," the Queen said once he'd finished. "Your story leaves much to be desired, even if it is true."

"I suspect I could tell you the story in its fullness, a task that may well take days, and not a single moment would pass in the realm outside of the Ring," Noctis explained. "Nonetheless, I understand your skepticism, even if I disapprove of it. What more proof do you have than this?" He gestured to the inky black space, stretching for endless miles in every direction. "This is not a dream, I assure you, even if it feels like one. Magic is, undoubtedly, real."

"It would explain many things," the Queen agreed. "For instance, until the early Industrial Revolution hit its stride in Britain, the Royal Court had its own magister, though their purpose is not clear these days. The title still exists, I believe, passed down a number of generations. The last person to hold it is a youth that runs a questionably successful vineyard in Essex, I believe."

"Then why is it that you doubt?"

"It is not that I doubt, King Noctis," the Queen replied, leaning back on her invisible seat. "It is that I cannot afford to hold this ring. I have a country to look after. My title is little more than that, I admit, but I still have responsibilities, duties, and appearances to uphold. The people find solace in their Queen, even if their government is going to shite," and here she grinned when both Harry and Aaron jumped and _stared_ at her, "and I simply do not have the time or the resources to build another kingdom."

"Then make Britain Lucis also," Noctis said simply. He raised his hand. A flash of light flared out from his palm, revealing a glossy, double-edged sword with a brick-like golden crossguard. Aaron moved to stand, but without a moment's hesitation the point of the blade swept under his chin. "A king of Lucis is not marked by how they expand their territory, or how they govern it. They are marked by destiny, by what they do to preserve the Crystal. The Crystal itself is safe—I have ensured that, at the very least—but my kingdom will go on even if its name is no longer Lucis."

The sword vanished, leaving Aaron to slump against the air. Harry reached out and patted his back in an admittedly awkward attempt at reassuring him. All it ended up doing was make Aaron jump a little more. "Britain is Lucis now," Noctis continued, "as Lucis is Britain. Do with the Ring as you will, but should you try and deny leadership, it will find its way back to you. If I have learned one thing from the many adventures I had with my companions, it is that destiny cannot be avoided, no matter what. You may try to force your way through it, move around it, or hide from it, but it will always find you in the end."

For the first time since he'd laid eyes on her, Harry saw the Queen falter and go silent. Noctis let out a deep sigh before turning to Harry. "You have done well, Harry Potter, but there is more to your legend yet. You will know what must be done when the time comes."

Noctis created his sword again, but this time the gleaming point didn't seem nearly as threatening. He tapped the Queen's shoulders, then her forehead, with the bare tip. "You are worthy," he intoned. "So the last of the Lucian Kings decrees, so too does the Ring declare. The one hundred and fifteenth king of Lucis, Elizabeth Bowes-Lyon, has been crowned. Lead Lucis well."

And with that, he was gone. The darkness receded, melting into the familiar walls of the tea room. Bare embers of bluish flame still guttered out in the air, as did comets of sparkling light that spewed from the ring on the Queen's finger. Harry glanced around before pitching backward with a yelp. The air had faded under his butt, and the ground that caught him left a throbbing lump on the back of his head. He grimaced.

"Are you alright, lad?" the Queen asked. Harry simply nodded, not trusting his mouth. Nothing trickled down his neck, at least, so no blood or water or anything else had been spilled.

The Queen sighed and turned to the door. "Aaron, can you stand?" Aaron nodded an affirmative, leaving her to smile slightly. Harry stared as she beckoned Cormac and Aaron towards the door. "Cormac, please contact Alonso and get these two situated in one of the guest quarters for the night. I fear there will be much to explain in the morning. Right now I need a stiff drink and a long rest."

"Your Majesty?" Cormac asked.

"Please, Cormac, just… just do it." Harry stared as she walked out of the room, rubbing her forehead.


	6. Interlude (Elizabeth)

Queen Elizabeth Bowes-Lyon scowled and swirled the brandy in her glass. It was a lovely color, nice and rich, with a subtle taste that was perfect for her headache.

And what a headache it was.

"Cormac, is it done?" she asked. A few feet away, Cormac put down the landline and nodded, watching the door carefully.

"I've called Alonso; he's in the process of readying a room as we speak," he confirmed. "The two boys will be put into a room on the third floor of the North Wing; close enough that they'll not be able to escape, but far enough that they won't have an easy time of getting to Your Majesty's chambers." She snorted even as he glowered at his holstered gun, the gunmetal gleaming dully in the dim lights.

"How many times have I told you that those two boys aren't any threat?" she asked. She took a sip of her brandy, relishing the notes of apricots and pears that accompanied an acrid, alcoholic heat.

"As many times as you've said already, Your Majesty, and likely many more," Cormac replied. "Whatever that Potter boy did with that… _thing_ … was undeniably deadly, you have to admit that."

"I do." Elizabeth nodded, downing the rest of her brandy. The warmth spreading through her chest was only a slight comfort compared to the heavy ring now adorning her finger. The diamond in the center still glowed slightly, enough that it could just barely be seen in the dusky kitchen. The place was quaint, just refurbished with rich woods and creamy tile less than a month before. Elizabeth ran her fingers over the only original piece in the room: an oak table worn smooth by countless meals and spilled drinks.

"However," she continued on seeing Cormac's dubious look, "he is a boy, and he was performing a task that has been seen through. He doesn't want to hurt anyone. That Dursley boy, a little less so, but they won't misbehave outside of what shenanigans children their age normally indulge in."

"Your Majesty, I really must disapprove of this," Cormac said with a sigh. "I want to believe you, I really do, but whatever he did wasn't natural. It wasn't _right_ , I could feel it in my bones. That ring on your finger, too, gives off the strangest energy."

Elizabeth directed a bit more of her attention towards the Ring. It brimmed with power, unassailable and yet somehow completely open, burning with life energy right at her fingertips. She held out a hand experimentally, then smiled when the power rushed into the spot she focused on, creating a small shard of blindingly bright crystal. Cormac grunted, and her fingers closed, dissipating it into motes of glittering dust.

"My apologies, Cormac," she said after a moment. "I know you dislike the situation we've been put in, but it must been seen through completely. All three of us, and I suspect nearly everyone in the palace, will be sucked into the thick of this sooner or later. I will sort out the majority of the problems on my own; I'm still Queen yet, and Diana won't be taking my place for a good long while."

"Prince Philip doesn't want the throne, Your Majesty?"

She smiled fondly. "Philip knows I still have a few decades ticking away in me, and he won't take that away while I still want to rule. He'll take it if he must, but sometimes I think he wants me to outlive him just for that. Never did like too much responsibility, that one."

Cormac nodded stiffly. With a small grin, Elizabeth leaned across the table and passed the bottle of brandy to him. "Aged a few years now," she noted. "Expensive, but good. Have a glass yourself. I think you'll need it."

"I'm not supposed to drink on the job, Your Majesty," Cormac replied automatically. Even as he said it, he was reaching for a squat glass and a tumbler of ice. Elizabeth's smile grew into a smirk as he downed a mouthful without even flinching. "But putting that aside, I want to know what's happening. Forgive me for demanding, Your Majesty, but as your security I think I should be aware of whatever occurred in that room."

"I'm still trying to figure that bit out myself," Elizabeth admitted. She twisted the Ring of the Lucii once, watching it catch the light and return it with double its original intensity. "I believe, however, that I've just been made responsible for a kingdom that is intimately familiar with magic."

"I'd say I don't believe any of it, but considering you just made a diamond lightbulb in your hands, I'm willing to consider a bit more." Cormac relaxed slightly into his chair. Elizabeth knew it was against his better judgment; Cormac had always been, and would likely always be, the most rigid of the Queen's Guard. "A magic kingdom, you say? Where is it?"

Elizabeth relayed what little she knew about the kingdom of Lucis. The Potter boy had mentioned a book that could be useful in that regard, but the small conversation with Noctis would have to be enough. Cormac's expression, true to form, barely wavered as she told him of the Judgment of Kings. When she finished, he leaned back and nodded slowly, contemplating what remained in his glass.

"I've heard rumors about this kind of thing before," he acknowledged after a moment. "Little flits of talk about spells and magic and—worst of them, in my eyes—politics. Not from ordinary folk, either, nor the conspiracy-riddled fools that crow about lizard people. Every so often, there'll be a case of someone coming through the Road wearing robes. Actual, full-length robes, the kind you'd see in some sort of role-playing group. Thing is, people don't seem to ever notice them. Most just go on their way, and the few that do pay any attention just act like it's not a big deal."

"And you are one of those few?" Elizabeth asked, intrigued. Cormac snorted, setting his glass down on the oaken table. His bright red hair caught the light in a dance of flaming curls.

"No," he admitted. "I've caught myself completely ignoring them on the security cameras whenever they pop up. I might be a bit tired at times, Your Majesty, but I'm not an unobservant person. Missing someone in canary-yellow robes is not something I am prone to do."

Elizabeth waited patiently while Cormac poured himself another glass of brandy. "As you know, there are a few microphones hidden in various points along the courtyard of the Palace. Just in case, though we tend to turn them off for big events. Whatever it is those robed people do, it doesn't affect the microphones. We hear talk about the strangest things, even if it is sparingly. Worse yet, it even sounds like _gossip_. They mention products that don't exist on the common market. The number of times I've sent out notices to the guard to check for the existence of _Sleekeazy's_ hair products…"

"You're saying there are magical hair products?" The idea sounded utterly absurd, but then again, so did the idea of a kingdom run on royal magic and an immensely powerful Crystal.

"More than just the one, apparently," Cormac sighed. "There's an entire competitive market out there for these magicians, from what I can understand. Naturally, the majority of the populace doesn't know, nor should they. If the existence of magic was discovered, even if it's just magical hair care, people would have a fit."

"I find it immensely more concerning that this has been kept a secret from the public for so long," Elizabeth said crossly. "Even worse that it was kept from _me._ The Prime Minister and Parliament may well know about it, in which case I could understand a sense of secrecy, but the royal family has been trustworthy since I took up the crown."

"Your Majesty, I think it's less concerning that the Parliament may know about this and more that they have the power to evade normal society completely and still just _be_ there. Think of how many crimes could be committed by one of these magicians. Theft, murder, rape, and nobody would know who it would be. They could be attacking us with impunity, and we'd never know it."

"Evade normal society they might, but even an average Londoner would recognize a rash of crimes with no direct cause or evidence," Elizabeth said. "But that they can escape detection is indeed the main concern. Cormac, do you remember the last time the royal court had a magister?"

"I wasn't aware that we had one, Your Majesty," Cormac said neutrally. Even so, she could see his lips twitch into a faint frown. The information _could_ be vital for all he knew.

"We don't—not any more, at least. The last one was John Dee, and even then he was a bit dubious about the role. Died just at the turn of the seventeenth century, and nobody stepped up to claim the position since, even though Dee had children who supposedly possessed the same magical talent that he did."

"Witch hunters," Cormac realized.

Elizabeth nodded tritely. "With the rise of science as an area of study, magic became less of a normal part of life and more of a superstitious bumbling. I expect that by the end of the seventeenth century, magic was as reviled in Britain as the Soviets are in the States."

Cormac poured himself a third glass, though there wasn't a hint of rosiness in his cheeks. She smirked and nodded for him to go ahead when he glanced up at her. "Forgive me for interrupting a fascinating history lesson, Your Majesty, but what does this have to do with these magicians?"

"It's simply more evidence pointing towards their existence, and a bit of a warning to avoid them if possible," Elizabeth explained. "You know people don't do well with learning from history. If it were to get out that these magical people are living amongst us in secret, it'd just turn everybody against each other. Pandemonium would rise more quickly than if Satan himself had built it."

"But what about this Lucis?"

Elizabeth, eyes locked to the ring, contemplated the matter. It glimmered with a caressing blue-white light, a dulcet hum vibrating from the stone set within. "What is there to be done? Until I can discuss this with the Prime Minister and Parliament, it will simply be a name known to a select few people. Granting an entire country citizenship to a kingdom that doesn't exist will be… difficult."

Cormac fell silent, eyes wary. Eventually, almost cautiously, he spoke. "Your Majesty? If I might ask, why did you accept the ring in the first place?"

"Besides the fact that it was practically forced on me by a hundred kings and an eight-year-old boy?" Elizabeth's smile became brittle. "Why else? Power."

Cormac nodded. Only a mouthful or so of the brandy remained and, after gesturing to Elizabeth, Cormac down the rest of it straight from the glass. "I needed that," he admitted. Elizabeth's snort echoed through the room.

"I'm glad you've had a pick-me-up," Elizabeth said, "because we have work to do." She twisted the Ring of the Lucii once more, then stood, sprier than a woman half her age. "I have a Glaive to found, a kingdom to sort out, magic to explore, and a few choice words for Margaret."

Elizabeth stood, moving quickly through the kitchen and into an adjacent room. Cormac started and followed after, the faintest hint of red reaching his cheeks. As he rushed behind her, she thought she heard him mutter something about "brandy being stronger than he thought".

 _'Rampant alcoholic he might be,'_ she thought, ' _but he knows when to stop and when to down an entire bottle of whiskey.'_

"Your Majesty, where are we going?" Cormac asked.

She smiled and took a sharp left, stopping just before her office door. The guard standing in front of the heavy doors blinked, but that was the only sign of his surprise. "Good morning, Your Majesty," he rumbled.

"To you as well, Ramsay. Please stand aside; I have urgent business to attend to." Ramsay nodded and shuffled to the left, never once losing composure. She felt two pairs of eyes on her, one a piercing green and the other a dull brown. "Ah, and send for Aaron if he hasn't fallen asleep already," she added absently. "Tell him to bring the book the Potter boy mentioned. He will know which one it is."

Ramsay made a noise halfway towards confusion and affirmation, but she shut the door behind him before more could be said. The office was sparse, a sharp contrast to the lavish comfort of the rest of the palace. A few paintings hung on the rounded walls, every one looking down on a cluttered desk and a pair of chintz armchairs. The light snapped on as she walked in, almost of its own accord.

"Cormac, if you could kindly watch the window?" Cormac nodded and moved to stand behind her, his eyes sharp and watching. Elizabeth sat, steeped her fingers, and reached for the phone on the desk.

It only rang twice before a soothing voice answered. "Prime Minister's office, how may we help you?"

"The old woman's paying someone to answer the phone at _all hours_?" Cormac muttered from behind her. She grinned. "Daft of her."

"Please put me through to Margaret, Maria," she replied. Maria seemed to freeze up even through the line. "Please, I wouldn't have called if this weren't urgent."

"Understood, Your Majesty." The word was issued with more than a bit of hesitance, a stark contrast from the sharp, short confidence that usually came from her guard. "I'll put her through right away."

The phone began to ring again, and Elizabeth took a bit of time to examine her other rings. Of the two that she never took off, only the wedding band looked anywhere near tarnished. The other, a glistening, jewel-studded monster, sparkled even in the near-nonexistent light.

"Your Majesty?" Margaret's tired voice echoed. "What is it?"

"I need to have a serious discussion with you about this farce of a system you call magic," Elizabeth snapped. Again, there was that sensation of freezing from the phone. She glanced down and realized it was actually beginning to frost over. Hoarfrost halted as quickly as it had spread, trapped by the tight rein Elizabeth had to exert over her emotions. "Yes, I am aware that there is an entire _society_ of magicians living within Britain that nobody knows about, and I want _answers_."

"Your Majesty, I really don't think—"

"Frankly, Margaret, I don't give a damn what you think," Elizabeth growled. Margaret fell silent immediately. "You're going to be run out of office in a month anyway. I want you ready to receive guests at ten in the morning, no sooner, no later. You _will_ cancel any meetings you have before then. Do we understand?"

"Your Majesty!"

"I said _do we understand,_ Margaret?" The dangerous edge in Elizabeth's voice must have finally broken through to Margaret because she whispered a muffled affirmation. Elizabeth snorted and smacked the phone back on the receiver.

"You're getting that look in your eye again," Cormac said after turning around, all pretense of hierarchy forgotten. A smile crept across Elizabeth's face, one that unnerved even her.

"Like I said, I want answers," Elizabeth said slowly. She swiveled in her chair, eyes on one of the paintings of a golden dawn overlooking a grassy hill. "I am the Queen, Cormac. It has been the duty of the royal family to look after their citizens for hundreds of years, with varying success. I may not have the power my namesake enjoyed, but if these wizards are determined to be a threat to the general population, I will do what I must."


	7. Chapter 6

Harry Potter didn't get to sleep that night. He sat on the edge of a chintz armchair that looked dusty enough to give Aunt Petunia a hernia, his eyes on the veins of crystal now steadily pulsing through his skin. Streaks of white and gold occasionally intersected the constant, azure blue. Soft light welled up in the crystals and cast outwards, illuminating the room in a gentle glow.

The man named Aaron was in the room with them, though he looked just as tired. The crystals on his chest—Harry could see him wince every time he stretched too far—were just barely visible underneath the pressed shirt he'd changed into. Aaron met his eyes and nodded slightly, toying with the ridges of crystal that passed over his collarbone. The book was in his hands, held gently, as though the worn paper inside would crumble at the slightest touch.

A soft snore drew his attention to the sole bed in the room. Dudley had flopped down on it as soon as the door was open, and in another five minutes he'd been out like a light. The rasping sounds of Dudley's breath, combined with the tingling pressure running through his veins and into the crystals, left him wide awake and completely energized. He sighed and returned to focusing on the well of power shining through the crystals.

"Granted by the Ring," he muttered. Aaron snorted at him, and he returned a smile. With a bit of effort and a flex of his fingers, he dredged up a fragment of that power and let it settle above his palm. A shard of crystal shimmered into existence, releasing a white glow as bright as any lamp. It sputtered after a few seconds and winked out.

"Nine seconds this time," Aaron noted. Harry blinked and stared at him. He was grinning wryly, one hand on his chest and the other in the air before him. A few sparks danced along his fingertips, but nothing more. "You've gone up two from when you started."

Aaron, Harry decided, was one of the strangest people he'd ever met. Whenever the Queen was around, his mouth was set in a hard line and he was ready to draw his gun in an instant. The moment she left, however, he deflated, looking more like a roguish, exhausted accountant than anything else. A thin layer of stubble ran across his face, something he was sure wasn't quite protocol for the Queen's guard.

"Teach me how to do that?" Aaron asked, blue eyes twinkling in a vacant glow. Harry started and glanced at his hand, where another glassy shard hovered. He allowed it to fade into dust.

"It's sort of... different from anything else," Harry began, glancing at his hand. "Like if you've been sitting down for a long time and your leg falls asleep, and you can still move it even though you can't feel it." He delved into the blistering light held within his crystals, pulling a fragment out. Like an unfamiliar muscle, something in his core _flexed_ , then contracted. Another shard of crystal, this time lifeless and clear, rose from the dust in his palm.

"Like this?" Aaron asked. Harry saw the glow sharpen underneath his shirt, becoming a pale blue line stretching from his left collarbone to the ribs on his right. Something started to form in front of him, ragged and misshapen. Harry stood and moved towards the blueprint of white-blue light.

Ice flashed out from the point, spraying across the room. Harry yelped and threw his hands up. Across from him, Aaron grunted, his voice partially drowned by a sharp gust of wind. Cold permeated the room, leaking into his bones and etching frost on the walls.

"What was that?" he asked, wide-eyed. Aaron shook his head and stared at a cluster of sharp ice crystals frozen to the north wall.

"I have absolutely no idea," he whispered. A web of hoarfrost was spreading along his palm, greedily creeping across skin and drywall alike. He flexed it, and the rime shattered, falling to the floor like diamond dust. His eyes flared blue again, as did the patch of light beneath his shirt. Any ice that remained promptly vaporized on the spot, becoming a thin layer of fog.

"That was entirely unexpected," Aaron said after a moment. "And it wasn't anything like what you did. How did you make the light again?"

"It's… different," Harry struggled to explain. "Every time I do it, I just tell it to do whatever and it does what I need it to do. I'm best with invisibility, but I'm getting pretty good at that little light too." To demonstrate, Harry found the specific point in his metaphysical well of power that he'd touched several times before and pulled on it. Threads of glass and dust and crystal wrapped themselves around his arm, turning it clear, if a bit distorted. The moment his whole body was ensnared, the telltale shattering sound boomed from his form, much louder than he ever remembered it being. Aaron winced, but his head rose, ears tilted to the side.

"Potter, I may be trying to learn this, but you're to stay exactly where you are. Don't forget that I have permission to detain you if you disobey orders."

"I was just showing you," Harry muttered, but he flexed the magic again and his form cracked back into view. The dip in energy was interesting, but miniscule; he had the feeling he could go on for much longer before feeling the same sort of bone-deep weariness from the teleporting fork.

Aaron looked about to reply, but a buzzing sound from his pocket distracted them both. He glanced down and picked up what looked like a black brick with blinking green lights. A single warning look was shot at Harry before Aaron reached over, pulled the book from the table Harry had left it at, and stepped out of the room.

Harry winced when the door shut, half-expecting Dudley to wake up. Thankfully, his cousin just slept on, blond locks waving fitfully as he coiled in his sleep. With a quiet murmur, Harry went back to creating his light. The heat that radiated off the crystal he created soothed his cramping hand. The effect was gentle, almost lulling him into sleep, but then a julot of energy would rush back through him and he'd realize he was wide awake and the light-giving shard was nowhere in sight.

Still, even if they hadn't spoken much, he and Aaron had come up with some interesting ideas. Well, he's thought of some clever plans—if Aaron was half as smart as he expected, there was no doubt that he had as well. The glint of glassy crystal buzzed to life in his hand once more, and he went about sucking the light from its depths.

Harry didn't know how long he spent manipulating the crystal in his palm, only that by the time that Aaron opened the door again and gestured for someone to follow, he'd created half a dozen more and was manipulating them with flexing fingers. Each one hovered barely an inch above his palm, yet they somehow stayed in perfect formation. He allowed his focus to slacken just a bit when he noticed the Queen's steel-grey hair and neutral face.

The crystals very nearly exploded, and it was only with a force of effort and a heave of energy he didn't realize was still in his system that he managed to contain them into just evaporating. The Queen's knife-edged glare at his palm was telling enough that she'd noticed.

"It seems you weren't as tired as I expected you to be," she said calmly, though there was a hint of something else he couldn't identify staining the back of her voice. "Well, one of you, at any rate."

"Do you want me to wake up Dudley… um, Your Majesty?" Harry tried. He scowled inwardly at how pathetic it had sounded.

If the Queen had heard it, she didn't address it. Instead, she shook her head and gestured out the door. "No, I think you will be sufficient for this, Harry Potter. If I recall your story correctly, young Mr. Dursley didn't have anything to do with this journey of yours. I am in a bit of a predicament, and I am afraid I will need your advice."

Harry tried to contain the balk that threatened to jerk from his shoulders. "If you're sure, Your Majesty," he said quickly. "But… what can I do?"

"You can give me what information you know about the Ring and the Crystal," the Queen began. "But that is only after we have had breakfast and moved to Downing Street. I suspect you haven't had anything to eat in the past few hours, no?"

Harry's growling stomach was, to his mortification, all the answer she needed. "I expected as much. I don't often eat with my family, not when they're scattered all over England, but I do believe my son and his wife are here."

"I thought it was custom for the royal family to exclude most people from family meetings, Your Majesty," flame-haired Cormac said, sliding through the door and looking distinctly more revitalized than he had the night before. "The only people you've ever made exceptions for are visiting ambassadors, and even then not often."

The Queen's smile became mysterious, tinged with a mirth Harry wasn't sure he liked. "Oh, but young Mr. Potter _is_ a visiting ambassador. A royal one, no less. Since he was the one to bear the Ring to me, I only think it would be fair to designate him as the official ambassador between the Kingdom of Lucis and Britain."

"The official ambassador of an unofficial kingdom that doesn't exist?" Aaron glanced at Harry. "You're going places already, Potter."

Harry was sure the tips of his ears were a burning red.

As the four of them walked, the Queen slowed to match Harry's pace. He winced at the soft pattering of their shoes against brilliant red rugs and the gentle rush of air past his ears. "Mr. Potter," she said primly, "The two of us are going to need to talk after this breakfast is over. You aren't in trouble," she added upon seeing his horrified face. "It will simply be a discussion what will come of Lucis."

"You Majesty, Lucis is gone," Harry said uncertainly. "Noct—ah, King Noctis—said so himself."

"He simply stated that Lucis is Britain, and Britain is Lucis," the Queen corrected. "You, me, and everyone in this palace are now Lucian citizens as well. Britain is mundane, Lucis is magic, Mr. Potter. This could very well mean a new age for our country and its people. You are the most familiar in this castle with magic, and you have the book that Noctis bestowed upon you. I suggest you study it, because I will be asking questions and I want satisfactory answers."

Harry simply nodded sharply, unsure of what else to do. "This is bizarre," he mumbled quietly.

"I suppose it is," the Queen said, the ghost of a smile touching her features. "You weren't expecting to be eating breakfast with the Queen, were you?" He shook his head mutely, and her ephemeral grin became a genuine smile. "I suggest you be on your best behavior when you meet Charles, Mr. Potter. I may be lenient with you, but I doubt he will."

The dining hall was ridiculously huge. Bedecked in brilliant reds and whites the likes of which Harry had never seen before, it nearly burned at the eyes with how bright it was. A single table, stretching from end to end of the room, had been covered in a sterling cloth, gilded with what looked like golden vines along the rim.

It all seemed a bit much, especially since there were only four plates set.

"Be a dear and sit down at my right, Mr. Potter," the Queen said as she moved toward one of the seats. "If Philip adheres to his usual traditions, he will be in shortly. I expect Diana and Charles to enter with him. Oh, and be sure to offer a nice stiff nod to my husband. Pleasant as he is, Philip is still the Duke of Edinburgh, and deserves a bit of respect."

Harry nodded and sat next to one of the placed tablesets, fidgeting with his hands all the while. The Queen whispered something to Cormac, who nodded and departed out one of the many side doors lining the hall. Harry stared a bit longer. The red and gold complemented each other well, but the strikingly white accents caught his eye and dragged it along.

The Dursleys didn't have anything nearly this exorbitant. They were _normal_ , with their normal house and their normal car and their normal jobs. The Queen, as Harry had realized the night before, was anything but normal.

"You're looking chipper, Elizabeth," a new voice called. Harry glanced up and regarded the new man with interest. Even though he looked freshly awake, complete with gentle bags under his eyes and a drooping smile, he was dressed in a full suit that looked more expensive than everything Harry had ever owned combined. What little hair he had shone a steely grey in the brilliant light of the chandeliers hanging from the ceiling. He took a few steps forward, apparently curious, then glanced down at Harry with brown eyes. "And we have a guest. What might your name be, young man."

Harry nodded sharply, though it came out as more of a bow than anything else. "I'm Harry Potter, sir."

"Well then, Harry Potter, we'd best get a place set for you!" He strode jovially to one of the side doors, shouting something to an unseen person before stepping back out. "By the way, why are you here?"

"Mr. Potter," the Queen interjected smoothly, giving him a steady glance that clamped his mouth shut, "has been chosen as the ambassador between Britain and the kingdom of Lucis. He is young, but we believe he has the potential to do great things in his tenure."

To his credit, Philip did little more than blink and sit down across from the Queen. Harry supposed it stemmed from dealing with lots of stuffy, annoying royals. Philip didn't bother tucking his napkin like the Dursleys insisted on doing, instead plopping straight down on his chair and pouring himself a cup of steaming coffee. "I wasn't aware of a kingdom called Lucis," he admitted. "Is it a new nation? Sounds Italian. Did the Sicilians finally revolt?"

He chortled at his own joke, and though Harry was dumbfounded he laughed along weakly. "It's a bit more complicated than that, Philip," the Queen said. "But that is not a discussion to be had over breakfast. For now, I believe I smell crepes."

Harry smelled crepes as well, though there were berries mixed in, and sugar syrup too. Instead of moving to the kitchen as his instincts were telling him, though, he simply sat in his seat and listened to Philip perform his one-sided banter with the rest of them.

Over the course of a few minutes, two more semi-familiar figures stepped into the dining hall. Prince Charles was as Harry remembered him on the television: a bit stern, but otherwise kind-faced and greying. Princess Diana, on the other hand, was all brilliant smiles and fluid movement, even in a prim business skirt. She took one look at Harry, cooed obligingly, and engaged him in a conversation so lively he couldn't have stayed silent if he tried.

It was absolutely _bizarre_.

But still, he was smiling as Cormac brought out a huge platter of crepes and eggs, finished with berries and fruits of all sorts. After a moment's hesitation and Philip snatching a stack of syrup-laden crepes, Harry grabbed a grapefruit and a small cluster of soft boiled eggs.

Breakfast was delicious, and it wasn't just because Harry had gotten as much of it as he wanted. Truthfully, he couldn't eat much more than what he'd first grabbed, only managing two more crepes before he felt stuffed. There was something about eating food that other people cooked for him, though, that warmed him through even more than the crepes did.

Breakfast came and went quickly, far sooner than Harry had wanted. After what felt like only a minute they were all cleaning their plates, the scrape of metal against china filling the cavernous depths of the room. Philip still had his idle chatter interspersed between bites, and Princess Diana's discussions with the Queen managed to rope Harry into what little he knew about schools and libraries. Finally, though, the plates were cleared and Harry dabbed at his mouth, trying valiantly to clear a bluish blackberry stain from the corner of his lips.

"Now we dispense with pleasantries and get onto business," Philip sighed, eyes locked on Harry's. He gulped and looked back, fighting the urge to feel invisible. What made it worse was that he could actually _do it_ without much trouble. "Elizabeth, you seem to have something to say to young Mr. Potter."

"Indeed I do," she responded, rising from her seat. Her chair made only the softest of sounds. "Mr. Potter, if you and Aaron would please step forward. Cormac, you as well." Harry did as he was told. Cormac and Aaron towered on either side of him. Suddenly his hand began to itch madly, and though he managed to resist the temptation to scratch it he couldn't hide the fact that the crystal formations running along his skin began to burn with a heavy white light. Beside him, Aaron stiffened, and he could only guess that the older man's chest had begun to sting as well.

The Queen raised her hand, palm outwards. Harry caught a harsh light emanating from the Ring of the Lucii, cloud-white and intense and unimaginably immense. "It has come to my notice that Lucian kings have had their Glaives since their rise to prominence," she intoned, eyes closed tight. Harry fought the urge to look back as three pairs of eyes fell on him. "The Kingsglaive was meant to protect the King, which in turn protects the Crystal. Poenus forged the Kingsglaive from his army, recruiting more than a hundred members of the greatest feats. By the end of Regis' reign, there were a dozen still loyal to the cause. By the end of Noctis', only three remained.

"The Kingsglaive must follow the rise of a new King. I do not have a Crystal to protect, but my people are more precious than any jewel or magic." The light stretched, becoming tendrils of flame that intertwined in white and blue strands. Harry felt the familiar pull of the flames and reached out to present the back of his hand. Cormac stayed stalwartly frozen, but with fingers more deft than he'd realized, Aaron unbuttoned the first few rungs of his shirt and moved his tie to the side, allowing only a smidgen of his own crystals to peek out. "Do you, Cormac Byrne, Aaron Maccoby, and Harry Potter, agree to take up arms in defense of Lucis and its King?"

Harry tried to speak, but nothing came out. He cleared his throat, wet his lips, and managed to force out a quiet affirmation. Beside him, Aaron and Cormac also agreed.

The King had been found and the Ring had been taken up. All that was left was to write his own story, intertwined with Lucis and its people.

The lapping flames shot forward as lances of near-solid fire, piercing the crystals woven into his flesh. It didn't hurt, not like the first time, but there was an uncomfortable crawling sensation creeping up his arms and into his shoulder. The Queen continued speaking all the while, eyes glittering and hard. "The pact between King and Glaive is sacred, one of utter trust. The Ring and the Crystal know who break the bonds forged between their Chosen and the Chosen's Chosen, and punishment is dealt summarily and brutally. Do you so swear that in protecting the King, you shall not betray her?"

"I swear," Harry said, more loudly this time. His eyes set forward, he focused on the fire that was feeding into his crystals. This was… new. The only way to describe it was unique, even though he wasn't sure how. A gut feeling, deep enough that he barely noticed it with the lightshow and itching that had reached his sternum, pointed him towards his crystals, as if to say _this hasn't happened before_.

"The pact is set," the Queen finished, hand closing. The Ring of the Lucii flared a nearly blinding white before settling back to its usual state. Even so, Harry could feel the change; the link between his crystals and the gem set into the Ring was almost palpable, shunting energy back and forth until equilibrium was reached. "Welcome to the birth of the second Kingsglaive." Her neutral frown became a small smile. "I suppose we'll have to design a new uniform for you three."

"In all my years," Philip breathed, "I have never seen something like this. Elizabeth, what have you done to these three?"

"I have bestowed them with the power they both need and want," the Queen said mysteriously, a small smile on her lips. "Aaron, you shall head the Kingsglaive until such time has passed that a suitable leader can be chosen. Cormac, you might be serving under him, but you have the suspicions about magic I believe we sorely need at the moment. Mr. Potter," he jumped when she turned to him, Ring still outstretched and power still sparking in her eyes, "you mentioned something about Mr. Dursley's parents, did you not? I shall have to check with them, and your guardians are certainly within their right to refuse your entry, but you are Kingsglaive now, like it or not. Noctis has told me his suspicions about you. I can only hope you shall surpass them so completely you become a modern legend."

"Y-yes, Your Majesty," Harry said weakly. Diana, Philip, and Charles all stared.

"Now, I believe we must be 'getting a move on', as they say," the Queen ordered. "Mr. Potter, we shall head to yours and Mr. Dursley's house first and clear things up with your guardian. After that, I have a meeting with the Prime Minister and a magical government to track down. I think I'll need all three of my current Kingsglaive present for that, just in case."

Harry could do little more than nod and stumble after the Queen as she left the dining hall, Cormac and Aaron flanking her, barking orders all the way through the palace.


	8. Chapter 7

**A/N: Double chapter today, because today was productive and I'm riding this positivity wave until it dies.**

* * *

Harry had thought that Uncle Vernon would be furious about him and Dudley sneaking out in the middle of the night and ending up in London.

He was partially right. Uncle Vernon hadn't been furious, he'd been _apoplectic_.

Harry explained to the Queen, in as steady a tone as he could muster, that he and Dudley lived in Surrey, not London, and that his uncle would likely be extremely angry with the two of them for hitchhiking an hour away from their home. She had merely smiled, ushered him and Dudley out of the door, and told them not to worry about it.

So it was that Harry found himself knocking on the door to Number Four, his eyes wide and his posture tense. He could tell that Aaron was giving him a curious look, but he ignored it in favor of focusing on the flashes of sunlight that flared off the canary-shaped knocker.

A tumble echoed inside the house, followed by a muffled, deep-set curse. The doo swung open, revealing the rapidly purpling face of Uncle Vernon. Harry glimpsed Aunt Petunia's abnormally pale skin sticking out from one of the corners, where the fumbling clatter of pots and pans rang.

"Dudley!" Uncle Vernon's gasp was half-sob, half-shout, and he practically shoved Harry out of the way to get to his son. Harry smacked against the side of the house, an echoing bruise shrieking between his shoulder blades. The light within him, brimming with magical potential, nearly coiled and rose from underneath his skin, but he tamped it down with a snarl of effort.

"Is that Duddydums?" Aunt Petunia sounded much more relieved, and she rushed out from the kitchen. Pangs of jealousy swept up from Harry's stomach as she embraced Dudley and Uncle Vernon. If the sympathetic grimace on Aaron's face was any indication, he knew exactly how Harry was feeling. At least, he knew about the mildly distasteful part that marveled at the sheer size discrepancy between the three of them.

Uncle Vernon opened his watery eyes for the first time since embracing Dudley and saw Harry. A deep breath, almost unconscious, passed through Harry's lungs even as Uncle Vernon purpled again. This time, his skin went straight to a peculiar blue shade that seemed almost unhealthy. He squeezed Dudley once, let go, and gently herded him to the side.

"I have you to blame for this, _boy_ ," Uncle Vernon growled. Out of the corner of his eye, Harry saw Aaron's eyes widen. The man moved to interfere, but Harry stopped him with a surreptitious glance and shake of the head. Uncle Vernon had seen it, however, and pulled him forward by the neck of his shirt. "I tell you to get out of this house, and what do I get in return? You end up kidnapping my boy and leaving him missing for most of the night. I've called the police, I've filed a missing persons report!"

"Dad—"

Dudley fell silent as Uncle Vernon swiped a hand in the air. "Don't you worry, Dudley, this will all be sorted out soon enough. As for _you_. You'll be lucky if we don't feed you for a week with the stunt you've pulled! I've half a mind to get my belt right now, and to hell with what the neighbors think!"

Aunt Petunia gasped, but Harry stayed silent. The fear had subsided long ago, replaced by something not quite angry. Uncle Vernon scared him, true… but Uncle Vernon was al afraid of his _freakishness_. And if Uncle Vernon was afraid of magic, then he had a way to fight back.

Harry was about to raise a hand, the light churning in a vast sea within him, but Aaron finally moved. He placed a hand on his side, the other in his pocket, and turned the corner. "I would be very careful with your next words, Vernon Dursley."

"And who the ruddy hell are you?" Uncle Vernon snapped. In a move so fluid it must have been practiced, Aaron slipped a leather wallet from his coat pocket and held it out. An official-looking ID card fell into his hands.

"Aaron Maccoby, Queen's Guard," he introduced with a disarmingly cheery smile.

Harry thought he'd never enjoyed anything so much as the way Uncle Vernon's face drained of color. The way his eyebrows knit together in apparent horror was more than slightly amusing as well.

"Ah—sir, I didn't mean to cause you any trouble," Uncle Vernon stammered. Beside him, Aunt Petunia shivered. Strangely, she'd seemed to absorb nearly all of her husband's lost color. Her cheeks and ears nearly purple, she tried and failed to pull Vernon back inside. "I don't know what insidious lies the boy's been telling you, but please take it with a grain of salt. He's unwell, you see, not quite right in the head. Has delusions of being magical."

"Aside from the fact that I had a child myself at Harry's age, I know what delusions look like, Mr. Dursley," Aaron assured with a grim smirk. "It's normal for children to go around pretending to be magical at the age of eight. Delusional? Pah."

He turned around and clapped a hand on Harry's shoulder. He jumped, so startled he briefly lost control of the shivering sea of light. Thankfully, it didn't manifest beside the crack of glass, though he thought he saw the beginnings of a spiderweb spread across the Dursley's kitchen tearoom window. "Besides, I don't think the Queen would conscript any delusional person to the Kingsglaive, especially not one as competent as Harry here." Aaron moved to approach the supposedly "surreptitious" black BMW parked at the curb. "Your Majesty, we're almost done here! You can tell Alonso to start the car!"

Not ten seconds later, the BMW roared to life. Harry stared as people began to look out their windows, glaring repugnantly at the car.

Then the Queen stepped out, and he'd never seen someone's expression change so fast.

The shrewd young lady holed up in Number Two had done a double-take, first out of surprise and then excitement. The expression seemed to spread around the block until there were dozens of people watching eagerly from the doorframes of their houses. The Queen approached carefully, poised and stately even in a standard suburb.

"Vernon and Petunia Dursley," she said calmly. "Would you mind if I came in for tea?"

They gaped like a pair of fish. Harry exchanged a glance with Dudley and, without meaning to, clamped down on a snicker even as his cousin did the same. Dudley swept forward, blond hair bobbing in the light. "Of course, Your Majesty," he said. Not even Harry could mistake the false pomp in his voice. "I'll put some water on the kettle right now."

"Thank you, Mr. Dursley." The Queen stepped past the elder Dursleys' inert bodies. Harry spared them a glance as he walked past.

"Is it bad to enjoy something like this so much?" he whispered to Aaron. The man grinned.

"Not if they were about to do what I think they were, it's not." Harry snorted, though Aaron remained oddly silent. "Harry, do they hurt you?"

Harry's shoulders went up in an imitation of a shrug. "Not with their fists. People would ask questions if I suddenly started showing up with bruises on my face. Even Dudley only hits my chest. Besides," he added quickly, seeing Aaron's disgruntled glare, "I don't think Uncle Vernon would ever actually hit me. Sometimes he locks me in my cupboard, and they yell at me a lot, but I've never been hit."

"By anyone other than your cousin," Aaron grunted.

"Yeah, but Dudley's always been like that," Harry explained. For some reason, the kitchen and dining area seemed more open than it had the last time he'd been there. Perhaps it was the natural light streaming through the windows—Aunt Petunia hated leaving the drapes open, so the lightbulb was the only source of luminance most of the time—or maybe it was the fact that neither Aunt Petunia nor Uncle Vernon were bustling around, shuffling through cupboards for a snack or something for him to clean.

"Doesn't make it right, Harry," Aaron said simply. Harry shrugged and looked at Dudley, who was shamelessly listening in on their conversation. He offered a weak smile that Harry batted away with a huff and a small glare. The sheer audacity would likely have gotten him a punch to the gut the night before, but Dudley only scowled at Harry and turned back to the kettle.

After a while, Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia finally unfroze. They still didn't enter the kitchen, blooming a sigh of relief in Harry. Whispered voices, just distorted enough to be indecipherable, echoed in the hallway, right across from his cupboard.

The moment the kettle whistled, he was on his feet in a flash. It took a few moments before he realized Dudley was already pouring water into the teapot, a slightly guilty look on his face. Doing his best to ignore the burning in his face and the inquisitive glances of the Queen and Aaron, he slowly lowered himself to the chair."

"Your Majesty," Uncle Vernon eventually spluttered, his face half-hidden by the mop of unbrushed hair on his head. "I was wonder what had happened to make someone such as yourself join us for morning tea."

The Queen, ever stoic, cracked a small smile. It wasn't one of the usual smiles she reserved for himself or Dudley, Harry noted, but rather a just-insidious grin. "I was actually discussing my future plans for a meeting with Ms. Thatcher," she explained. "Mr. Potter mentioned that it would be prudent for him to collect his things and drop off Mr. Dursley before driving to Downing Street."

Uncle Vernon paled even further. He shot a furious glance at Harry before continuing, his voice still sugar-sweet. "Your Majesty, I'm sure I didn't hear you mention Harry in those plans. He's just a boy, after all. A bit… abnormal, as well. He's not right in the head, you see; dropped on his head as a child." Uncle Vernon leaned in closer. "He seems to have these delusions that he's a wizard, Your Majesty."

"I've said it before, Dursley," Aaron grumbled. "Eight-year-olds don't get delusions, they get daydreams. Harry's as sane as you or I, though with how this conversation is going I'm starting to worried you're not entirely there."

"Besides, there is nothing delusional about Harry being magical," the Queen said cheerfully. "We thought you should know, as he is your nephew, but Harry does have magic. Mr. Potter, if you would?" Harry obligingly allowed the light to flow, becoming a sliver of rotating crystal above his palm. Uncle Vernon nearly jumped from his seat, bringing another small grin to Harry's face. "He's been proud to join the newest royal guard regiment, the Kingsglaive. As of now, we're going to be assigning him a room in Buckingham Palace, along with the rest of the Kingsglaive."

Harry couldn't help it. He laughed, amusement bubbling up from his stomach and out his mouth. It came out as a half-hiss from how tightly his jaw was set. Behind him, Harry could hear the slight thud of Dudley jumping in his spot as well, though a snort also burst from his lips. Even Aaron cracked a small smile when he looked up, though it was tinged with the same stoicism that pervaded his entire being.

"Are you quite done, Mr. Potter?" Contrary to her admonishing words, the Queen's tone brought on another wave of giggly laughter, though Harry kept it in his head this time. He nodded and turned to the teacup that had just been placed in front of him.

"Yes, Your Majesty," he said solemnly. The effect was ruined by the earsplitting grin that stretched across his cheeks.

"Po—Harry, may I speak with you for a moment?" Uncle Vernon's voice couldn't have sounded more forced, and to Harry's childish wiles it was delightful. Still, speaking to Uncle Vernon alone had never yielded good results. Even as he nodded, he made a motion to Aaron behind his back.

Uncle Vernon stepped out into the hallway, Harry only a half-step behind him. Before they could even get to the end of the hall, Uncle Vernon whirled, his face a sallow shade that wouldn't have looked out of place on a corpse. "What have you done?" he whispered hoarsely.

"I don't know what you mean, Uncle Vernon," Harry demurred softly. The telltale creak of wood on a plank Harry had gotten used to avoiding signaled the presence of Aaron, only a few steps away and ready to intervene if necessary.

"I think you do," Uncle Vernon growled. "I think you know ruddy well what I mean. I don't know how you managed to beguile the blasted Queen with your freakishness, but when I get this sorted out you can be damn sure you won't be able to speak for a week!"

"But didn't you hear, Uncle Vernon?" Harry asked innocently. A small part of him wondered if he might be enjoying this _too_ much, but it was overruled by the unadulterated glee coursing through his veins. Even the light within seemed to revel in his uncle's rapidly purpling expression. "I won't be here any longer. You won't have to worry about my freakishness any more."

Uncle Vernon snarled quietly. "And you decided to bewitch Her Majesty to get away. I won't let this happen, boy, I won't. I am not a bad man, but I will do what must be done." Harry stared, amusement bleeding away into confusion. Uncle Vernon was, indisputably, a bad man.

Harry was about to open his mouth again—to tease his uncle more or ask what he'd meant, he wasn't sure—when Uncle Vernon lunged. He ended up yelling, a cry tearing from his lips even as his light surged, magic and reality becoming one in a single instant. A shimmering barrier, seemingly made of the same crystal he liked to form, spread in hexagonal flakes from Uncle Vernon's point of impact.

Uncle Vernon bounced off the shield, but before he could regain his footing another figure tackled him to the floor. Aaron reached back, one hand clamped over Uncle Vernon's meaty neck and the other ripping his gun free.

"Your Majesty, get back to the car!" he thundered. The gun was shoved into Uncle Vernon's gut. Harry allowed the barrier to dissipate, revealing a crystal-clear depiction of the scene. The Queen had gotten to her feet and was halfway across the kitchen when Aunt Petunia shrieked and dropped her tea. Harry stood back, ready to go invisible if need be. It wouldn't stop Uncle Vernon from touching him, but he could get away much more easily.

For his part, Dudley just sipped his tea, watching the ensuing drama raptly.

"Get your hands off my husband, you brute!" Aunt Petunia squawked.

Harry stepped back, careful to keep his back to the wall. He caught the Queen giving him an arched eyebrow. "Your Majesty," he said as calmly as he dared. "Please go back to the car."

"If you insist, Mr. Potter," she said, though she couldn't hide a glint of concern in her eyes. Harry just shooed her away and focused on slowing his breathing. The tears that were coming to his eyes were entirely unintentional, but he focused on how they tracked down his cheeks, drawing wet gouges into his skin. While Aaron spouted off a series of words he was sure would be important later, he focused on the moisture on his skin.

The light reached out, trying futilely to comfort him. He harnessed it instead, feeding the sudden spikes of adrenaline and terror and tears into his magic, allowing it to ingrain and burn away his tears.

A gentle chill danced along his hands, and he opened his eyes. Held within was a miasmic violet cloud, thick and heavy with chilling rain and wind. He was almost tempted to launch it at Uncle Vernon, but at the last moment decided better of it. It dissipated, unneeded.

"Mr. Potter," Aaron said sharply. He glanced up from his hand. Fire had sprouted in his center once again, fueling the light, scalding away his fear. "Gather your things and return to the car. I will guard you until you are ready to proceed."

Harry nodded once and turned to his cupboard. The worn brass knob opened obligingly under his touch. He expertly maneuvered around the boxes scattered over the floor, gathered what little he owned—a blanket, a glass marble he'd stolen from Dudley when they were both little, and a little plastic bottle filled with stamps he'd shaved off of the Dursleys' mail.

HE was almost out of the door when a thought struck him. "Oh!" he exclaimed. All it took to empty the bottle was a flick of the wrist. With gentle fingers, he reached out under his bed and scooped up the majority of Robin's webs. "You're coming with me, girl. We're going to make you a proper house."

Robin scuttled around in his hand, only stopping once she was safely in the bottle. Eight beady black eyes stared balefully up at him. "Sorry, sorry! I promise I'll get you something to eat later. I'm sure there are a few flies somewhere around the Palace."

He scampered out of the room, watching Uncle Vernon carefully. The man's mustache appeared to be fraying in tufts. Aaron stared coolly at them, only sparing a glance at Harry before retreating.

"That was your bedroom." It wasn't a question. Harry nodded mutely, allowing a fragment of light to course through his system and warm him up again. "Harry, that was your _bedroom_."

"Yes," Harry said dryly, "I'm well aware. What about it?"

"What parents give a child a bedroom that doubles as a cupboard?"

Harry laughed. A genuine chuckle, too, not a bitter one. "There's no way I would ever be considered normal by the Dursleys. Ever since I first did magic—I think the first time I did it was when I was six, but it might have been earlier—they've been giving me more and more work to keep me busy. Dudley hits me, but it's been getting better, since my bruises heal faster than most people's. Besides, I fit in there, and the second bedroom is filled with all of Dudley's old toys."

"But it's a _cupboard_ ," Aaron argued. Harry sighed and made to retort, but the Queen shot him a warning look. His mouth clicked shut, and with a groan of leather and a shiver of his fingertips, he settled into the backseat of the Queen's BMW.

The next hour was spent in complete silence. Harry lost interest in staring at the fading skyline of Surrey after only five minutes. Instead, he turned his attention inward, back to the shimmering haze of light. A flash of familiar fury, a trace of emotion he'd thought he'd shoved down, speared through his light. It coalesced in his hand as the same virulent cloud he'd created earlier. It strained against his control, almost _venomous_ , but he clamped it down.

Eventually, it siphoned away into nothingness, but not before he managed to get a better look at its effects. Unlike the magic he'd performed before, his cloud froze and dug into his skin. Where the invisibility disoriented him and the teleporting fork set some sort of weariness deep in his muscles, this chill actually _hurt_. What was worse was the poison-green veins stretching out from his free hand, pulsing and throbbing in a horrific staccato. The effect faded away only a few moments after the cloud disappeared, but he couldn't shake the absent sensation of numbness that coiled up his arm briefly.

The car slowed to a stop, and Harry glanced up. "Are we there already?" he asked Aaron. The man nodded, staring neutrally at the door to 10 Downing Street.

"Aaron, you know the procedure, but I believe Mr. Potter shod know what he should be doing when we meet with the Prime Minister." Elizabeth had already assumed her flat-faced façade, eyes set forward and hands clasped tightly over her bag. Her navy coat seemed almost black in the shade provided by a line of trees. "I want this to go smoothly."

"Ah, before you go," a new voice said. Alonso stepped out of the car to open Elizabeth's door. His curly black hair was starting to gray, and though he was particularly small the lines on his face suggested anything but youth. He peered down his glasses at Harry. "I'm going to get you cleaned up a bit, young man. There is a small store down the street; nothing designer, Your Majesty, but enough that he won't look like a slob."

"I look fine!" Harry protested even as he stared down at his clothes. Dudley's shirt had several new rips in it, and one leg of his jeans was entirely shredded after a long-range teleport and skidding across the street.

"You look like a vagabond," Alonso muttered. He wrapped an arm around Harry's shoulder and shuffled him down the street.

Fifteen minutes later, Harry was dressed in a fresh pair of pants and a white shirt. He shook his wrists out irritably, picking at the crimson sleeves of his jacket. "Did you have to pick something red?" he asked irritably. "And take so long too? We could have grabbed the first shirt and a pair of jeans."

"And have you look like a homeless delinquent?" Alonso scoffed. "No, you are going to meet with the Prime Minister with some semblance of style. Reflecting the autumn is better than that ratty green tee you had anyway."

He wasn't wrong, Harry mused. The varying oranges and reds decorating his windbreaker wouldn't have looked out of place on a tree. Still, he'd liked the chill of the wind battering against his open arms.

"Ah, take these as well," Alonso said. He pulled out a thin pair of glasses, set into rectangular frames and missing the lower wire. "I don't know your prescription, but they're an old pair of mine. Certainly can't be any worse than the ones you have, considering how much you bumbled about in that store."

Harry scowled at the man, but he pulled off his taped-over glasses and slid the new ones on. The world sharpened, but not by much. Anything beyond the end of the street was still a blurry mass, but at least he could see the Queen's car somewhat clearly from their spot across the street. "Thank you, Alonso," he said grudgingly.

"You sound like you're having a hernia. Now go find Mr. Maccoby and get briefed," Alonso ordered. "I shall wait in the car until Her Majesty is finished."

Aaron stared at him as he approached, an eyebrow raised. "Alonso made you look like a living target," he groaned. Harry smirked and sent a venomous glance back at the driver, who simply folded his arms. "Never mind that, though. The more attention you draw to yourself, the less you draw to the Queen. Any possible threats will do a double-take when they see an eight-year-old dressed like a clown in the room."

Harry's eyebrows knit together. The spark of concern in his gut intensified significantly. "There's not going to be any need for that, right?" he asked weakly.

The stare that Aaron gave him was impassive. "The Guard dedicates their lives to protecting Her Majesty, whether from trivial threats or dangerous ones. You have to be willing to take a bullet at any time to get her to safety. As she is not the bearer of the Ring of the Lucii, that goes for the Kingsglaive as well. Be prepared to die, Harry, or don't bother showing up at all."

Harry gulped, but the defiance was already burning a path in his system. "Then I'll do it," he declared. "Just watch me."

Aaron nodded, the slightest hint of approval in his eyes. "We'll make a proper man out of you yet," he noted. "Now, as for the meeting with the Prime Minister. It's very likely that there might be a member of the supposed magical government in attendance, so we're going to be on guard from the moment we enter. Nobody knows just what they'll do."

Harry nodded and fingered the marble in his pocket. Robin had been left in the car; he wasn't willing to risk her getting stepped on, not so soon after leaving the Dursleys. Its cool, smooth surface brought back thoughts of the Ring. "Do you have anything that can be used to teleport? From your story, you can bring others with you. You might need to escape with the Queen if things get dicey."

"I understand, Aaron," Harry said shortly. He _did_ have the marble, but the coins Alonso had him holding would be more innocuous.

"You're to call me 'sir' at all times when on a mission, Mr. Potter," Aaron ordered.

"Yes sir," Harry repeated. Aaron narrowed his eyes, but didn't comment. He simply gestured for Harry to go first, behind the Queen, as they walked into 10 Downing Street.

* * *

 **A/N: There we go. Tomorrow I should be continuing with a post a day, as per usual. In the meantime, I have a ! Check it out if you want more writing like this, or if you want to suggest something that you think I should write! Just search my name at the home page, and you'll be home free.**


	9. Chapter 8

The inside of 10 Downing Street smelled of lavender.

It was the first thing Harry noticed upon walking in, even more than the sudden influx of artificial light or the missing cool wind against his skin. It was the same air freshener that Aunt Petunia liked to use on an almost daily basis, the same one that burned at his sinuses even through the pleasant, soothing smell. The light gathering in his center turned hard, sharp, ready to lash out at a moment's notice. With a grunt of effort, he forced it to relax once more.

The shield still never left his mind. Hexagons becoming jagged shards that gathered upon a single point in a shimmering barrier of glassy fragments, webbed together with pure light and magic—

"Calm yourself, Potter," Aaron said sharply. Harry winced; the air had begun to crack around them, traces of magic and crystal peeking out from the folds in space. The mental schematic of the shield drew back, apparently satisfied, and the air appeared to knit itself back together. "Don't let that get the best of you in this meeting, or you might blow our cover."

"We have a cover?" he whispered furiously. "Why wasn't I _told_ that we have a cover?"

"Our cover is the fact that we don't know about magic," Aaron murmured back. "If there are any magicians in there, they won't expect us to be able to fight back. I might not be able to manage the same kind of stuff you can, but I can at least make it cold." He held up a hand just briefly, right in the shadow of one of the security cameras. Frost wreathed it immediately, woven into braids of fog and ice crystals. His hand dropped, and the effect faded like it was never there in the first place. "I might be able to do more if I really try, but that should be enough of a surprise for now."

The Queen stopped at the door. "The room is soundproofed both ways, so I will require your presence inside," she said in a clipped tone. "Before that happens, however, we will need to decide on aliases. Margaret has a great deal of liberty when it comes to identity records, even though she shouldn't. If one of your names comes up and this meeting takes a turn for the worse, you may well be in danger."

"I'll take my usual," Aaron said immediately. He gave Harry a considering glance. "As for Potter, it may be best to stick closer to home for now. Your name's just Harry?"

"Just Harry," he confirmed.

"Then we'll go with Harrison," Aaron decided. "Harrison Poe, on account of that argumentative king."

"Harrison Poe it is," the Queen affirmed. She knocked twice on the door, sharply. Moments later, it opened, and Harry stepped into the room as gracefully as he could.

The interior was bland, though it was made well. The walls were a mixture of navy and rich brown wood, painted to seeming suck in light and spit it back out on the accents. The lighting made his own inner light tingle from the artificiality. He was on the verge of commenting about it to Aaron when he realized that his superior was staring forward with a heavy gleam in his eyes.

Sitting at a simple desk cluttered with papers, pens, and stamps, sat a woman. Her wrinkles reminded Harry suspiciously of Aunt Petunia, but in contrast to his Aunt's pinched-lemon look, Margaret Thatcher wore a guarded smile. She gestured with a ring-endowed hand, sapphires glittering in the incandescent light. "Your Majesty," she greeted. "It's good to see you again. If you and your—companions would take a seat?"

Harry sat. Conspicuous as it was, he doubted anyone had missed the slight jump in Thatcher's voice when she'd said companions. Had his presence surprised her, or perhaps it was Aaron's almost hostile glare?

"Thank you, Margaret." Aaron only gestured for Harry to sit after the Queen had, and even then he himself remained standing. The gun at his hip wasn't showing through the suit jacket he wore, but Harry could see the faintest bulge on the same line as his belt.

Thatcher looked over Harry, an interested gleam in her eye. "This is?" she asked, an indulgent smile on her face. Harry nodded his head.

"Harrison Poe, ma'am," he said as steadily as he could. Truthfully, there was a niggling desire to just go invisible and stay that way for the rest of the meeting, but Aaron's wary look and a very slight tightening of the Queen's hands on the arms of her chair stopped him. Instead, he bowed a bit deeper. "It's very nice to meet you, ma'am."

"Are you sure you want to have this… _conversation_ … with Mr. Poe around, Your Majesty?"

The Queen nodded, her gaze searching Harry's for something before turning back to Thatcher. "I do. He was the one that brought this incident to my attention, and he has provided enough proof that I believe it is more than a child's daydream. Now, shall we turn to answers?"

"I had hoped I wouldn't be the one to give you this explanation," Thatcher admitted after a full minute of silence had passed. "You deserve to know, of course, and I have hope that in time everyone on our side will be fully knowledgeable about their affairs, but…"

"There is no but about it," the Queen said stiffly. "Margaret, by keeping this from me I hope you understand you're skirting the law _extremely_ dangerously. These magicians have any number of abilities I don't know about, and though I don't doubt that you had a good reason they still pose a threat to national security."

"It's not simply posing a threat to national security, Your Majesty," Aaron said stiffly. "These _wizards_ have been shown to actively cloak themselves from the presence of the public. Even the Royal Guard has no idea that they exist. Normally I would be satisfied with the notion that they mean no harm, but with this kind of power, I cannot accept that. They have _entered Buckingham Palace_ , Prime Minister, more than a dozen times in the past month alone!"

Thatcher's eyes narrowed slightly. "They have?" she asked sharply. "I swear I had no knowledge of this."

"Did you not?" Elizabeth suggested. "Margaret, you have the most knowledge on these magicians among all of us. How dangerous are these individuals, and how freely do they move?"

"I cannot say much, Your Majesty, you understand," Thatcher insisted. "I am only informed of the bare basics of their politics, and I swore an oath that I wouldn't betray their existence to anyone who doesn't know or has not been approved." Harry saw Aaron opening his mouth out of the corner of his eye, and Thatcher quickly continued. "But I should be able to tell you a little about them. Their new Minister is young, only in her mid-twenties. As far as I know, the entire population—their community, rather—is spread all around Britain, and they move as freely as any other citizen of Great Britain."

"So there isn't _any_ restriction on their activity?" Aaron growled softly. Elizabeth glanced sharply his way. "Your Majesty, these people may be rifling through secret documents. They could be infiltrating this very meeting!"

Alarmed, Harry reached for his light. It responded with vigor, filling his body, though more restrained than the last time he flooded himself with magic. Each different sunbeam from the core of his being rippled, a different aspect alighting within it. He reached out to one, grasping, twisting, _understanding_. This gentle beam held enough power to create a scalding fireball, one powerful enough to incinerate the desk sitting before them. He discarded that beam carefully and searched through another.

Half-awareness filled him even as he searched. At some point, Aaron had come dangerously close to shouting; a miraculous event, given how tightly Aaron kept rein of his emotions during business. It had taken the Queen reaching out and placing a hand on his shoulder to calm him down. Harry suspected the only reason he'd remembered it was because he was inspecting a sunbeam that seemed to weave the chill of a frozen winter night into his bloodstream.

Finally, he found it. Of the dozens, even hundreds of sunbeams, a single one had something close to what he searched for. He allowed it to shine free of whatever containing barrier had been wrapped around the core of his magic. The light flowed into his body, then out, releasing from his skin in a visible azure pulse.

Everyone stopped dead from the flash. He glanced up, wishing he'd had a weapon. Even the teleporting fork would work better than his fists, and while the pulse hadn't drained him as much as the lance had, a tingling feeling still buzzed in his bones from summoning the barrier in the Dursleys' home. Still, he'd accomplished what he wanted to do.

"Aaron, there are two people in the corner, next to the flag," he growled lowly. "They have something in their hands."

Harry allowed his magic to run a little looser, then, ready to grab the Queen and one of the pens on Thatcher's desk and teleport away. Aaron's gun came up so quickly he barely caught it moving. He held it in one hand, though Harry could see he wasn't used to it. The other was splayed in the same manner he'd held it before entering the room. He could almost _see_ the light of magic rushing into the air above Aaron's palm, ready to yank the heat away from that area in an instant.

"I wonder where you got an ability like that, Mr. Poe," a new voice wondered from the corner. Harry started when two people just _appeared_ there. It wasn't like his own invisibility, which left behind Crystal dust and moved gradually. No, these people had been completely invisible one moment and dressed in robes so gaudy and colorful he nearly looked away the next.

"It seems to be a bit of inheritance on my part," the Queen said calmly. Just like always, Harry marveled at the sheer amount of composure she could keep from sitting on a chair. She stared impassively at the newcomers. "Forgive me for taking command in your office, Margaret, but our new guests should take seats. It is awfully rude to simply have them stand there."

"My thanks, Your Majesty," one of them said. She was the only one to take a seat; the hulking dark-skinned man beside her, with nearly black skin and eyes that glittered with a combination of wariness and crafty intelligence, deigned to stand. His gold robes, lined with silver and tight enough that they seemed to not impede movement, flashed in the light.

Harry turned his eyes to the young woman who had taken a seat. She was pretty, _very_ pretty, and though she only looked to be a year or two younger than Aaron he wondered just how important she could be. She sat with poise, smoothing her scarlet robes trimmed with gold vines and leaves. When Harry looked again, whatever had been in their hands was gone, and he had absolutely no idea where the rods could have gone.

The young woman raised a hand. Contrary to Harry's expectations, she simply smoothed away a lock of shimmering blue-black hair. "Would anyone like tea?" she asked, waving her hand. Immediately a silver platter appeared on Thatcher's desk, complete with six cups of steaming tea and a mirror-smooth pot.

"Your Majesty," Aaron said gently. Elizabeth raised an eyebrow and continued to reach for a cup. She took a sip.

"It hasn't been poisoned, Aaron," she admonished with a wry smile in her voice. Harry released a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. "You don't need to worry too much about these old bones. I've survived poisoning back in the War, and I can still do it now."

Harry wasn't so sure of that. Even by adult standards, the Queen was getting old, and she looked greyer than Aunt Petunia did when she washed the coloring out of her hair. Aaron simply sighed and took a cup himself, while the newcomers both smiled and grabbed for their own.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Your Majesty," the woman said smoothly. "My name is Millicent Bagnold, the current Minister for Magic."

The air seemed to still slightly. Harry glanced between Thatcher and Bagnold, eyes wide. Despite only being eight, Harry had an eye for when people would argue. Dudley did it all the time, and he got the exact same look in his eyes: a flicker of irritation and a bit of defiance, culminating into a narrowing of the eyes and a pursing of the mouth. Thatcher's forehead tightened even as her cheeks drew inward slightly. Apparently, she didn't like Bagnold all that much.

"And the man behind you?" Aaron asked tersely. The dark-skinned man's head bowed so low his brightly-embroidered hat nearly fell off his head.

"I am Kingsley Shacklebolt, current aide to the Minister, as well as her defender in the Muggle world."

Harry's brow furrowed at the name "Muggle", but before he could follow the little traces of memory it conjured, the Queen spoke. "It's good you're here, Minister Bagnold," she said almost brightly. Had Harry not seen the almost malicious grin on her face only an hour before, he would have guessed she was actually happy to see Bagnold. "Minister Thatcher and I were discussing the presence of your wizards in my Palace, as well as the potential threat they place to national security. Do you have anything to add?"

The bomb couldn't have dropped more obviously, but Minister Bagnold only widened her eyes before continuing. "I was aware of the nature of your conversation, Your Majesty," she said shortly, a bit of a frown directed towards Thatcher. "And I believe I stated that I had hoped it would not be me who would explain this to you."

Fire erupted in Harry's brain.

The crystals in his hand blazed with a brilliant white light. Harry only caught a glimpse before the world before him blurred with tears and hot breath. Ringing screams echoed in the room. It took a moment before his brain connected it with the raw stinging in his throat.

"Mr. Poe!" The flames snapped shut, retreating back into the recesses of his brain. He blinked away the tears; they steamed against his skin. The sizzling pops faded into the background when Aaron's groan sounded from beside him.

"How'd I get on the floor?" he asked blearily. The massive form of Kingsley Shacklebolt stared down at him. His face was creased in some semblance of concern, but he didn't move from his place behind Bagnold.

"Mr. Poe, are you alright?" the Queen asked. Harry reached out and steadied himself on the smooth oak desk as he rose. The throb of _something_ echoed in the veins of his entire arm. He nodded and glanced towards Aaron. The man stared upwards, obviously alert but completely silent and still.

IT took a few more minutes before everyone seated themselves. Nobody spoke the entire time Harry and Aaron got to their feet and seated themselves. Harry's tea arced in a dark-staining splash on the carpet, but nobody bothered to clear it up. Eventually, the Queen spoke up, restrained anger in her voice. "Minister Bagnold, you had bloody well explain what just happened."

Minister Bagnold's eyes narrowed, but she remained silent. Eventually, Kingsley spoke up instead. "Ma'am, I deeply apologize for any misunderstandings that came up as a result of this meeting. On behalf of the Ministry of Magic—"

"The Ministry of Magic will be asunder sooner than you can say 'abracadabra' if you don't explain what's going on!" Elizabeth snapped. Everyone, even the stoic Shacklebolt and Aaron's shivering form, jumped. Harry plucked another sunbeam from the depths of his soul, shunting it through the crystals in his hand. "So far, Minister Bagnold, you are coming dangerously close to proving our suspicions that you are a threat to the wellbeing of the people of Britain. You have exactly one minute to tell me what you just did to one of my trusted guard, or so help me, heads will roll."

Minister Bagnold eventually sighed and glanced towards Thatcher. The older woman's face was pinched into a citrusy scowl. Heavy breaths emanated from the both of them. "It is protocol amongst the Ministers of Magic to keep the royal family of Britain from being notified of the existence of magic," Bagnold eventually admitted. "Even since Royal Magister Dee's mysterious death, the people of the Ministry grew suspicious of the Crown. After applying the Statute of Secrecy, the stance on inviting any muggles who weren't already tied to magic was solidified."

"Muggles?" the Queen asked dubiously.

"Our apologies," Bagnold said quickly. "It simply refers to individuals who don't possess the gift of magic. The Statute of Secrecy was designed to prevent the knowledge of magic from disseminating amongst the muggles. As you can tell, there isn't much we can't stop from getting out."

"And the sudden seizure that affected my guard and his apprentice?" the Queen asked. "I don't suppose the two of them were simply stricken with an aneurysm at the same time."

"No, I don't believe they were." Bagnold's mouth creased into a thin line, followed by a wrinkling of her brows that made her look a decade older. Harry found the transformation oddly amusing, though he wasn't sure if it was the residual pain jittering through his system or not. "There was a failsafe built into the wards surrounding the Statute of Secrecy. In the case that someone particularly important or strong-willed—an exceptional muggle politician, for instance, or a stubborn or wise person—were to learn about magic, an Obliviation would be insufficient to completely wipe the existence of magic from the individual's mind, a simple conversational line would be brought up. This would completely and thoroughly erase the memories of any magic from the individual's mind before compelling them to do something else."

"Mind magic?" Aaron muttered, clutching at his forehead. "Explain why my brain feels like it was dipped in an acid lake." He glanced at Harry. A bit of frost webbed his hands, signaling the presence of the chilly handful of fog weaving across his head. "You alright, Harrison? Need an aspirin?"

"Fine, sir," he grunted. "A little warm, but fine." The background sizzle of his sweat on his skin came back into razor focus, and he winced. "Yeah, just a little warm. Let's go with that."

"You mean to tell me," the Queen growled, sounding truly dangerous for the first time since Harry had met her, "that you just tried to wipe the minds of two people who were completely incapable of fighting back? Two of your fellow citizens?"

"The Statute of Secrecy is to be taken in the strictest of confidences," Bagnold snapped, all pretense of civility dropped. "It doesn't differentiate between a beggar or a queen. All muggles are to be kept privy from the magical government. Even the Prime Minister gets only the barest of details, and that is only so we don't step on each others' toes during the lawmaking process."

"Be that as it may, there are details that greatly concern me," the Queen said imperiously. "Aaron, take your apprentice and head out of the room. You are leaving, and you are not returning until a compromise is written out between the three."

"Your Majesty, I'll have to respectfully decline. You'll need some sort of defense against these wizards in case they try anything funny."

"Then Mr. Poe shall leave," the Queen demanded. "I do not trust my mouth right now. He shouldn't have to hear anything we may say."

Aaron gave Harry a sidelong look he was growing used to. With a despondent nod, Harry crept to the door, his back against the wall the entire time. Before he could leave and release his hold on the light in his crystals, however, Bagnold held up a hand.

"Harrison Poe, was it?" she asked, eyes lidded in a crafty, searching gaze. "Would you happen to have a scar on your forehead, Mr. Poe? In the shape of a lightning bolt."

The plunging chill of terror rushed down Harry's spine, though he didn't know why. The spell he held within his crystal nearly lashed out then and there, but before it could he shoved his hand in his pocket. "I don't," he snapped coldly. "And I would appreciate it if creeps like you wouldn't talk to me again."

Bagnold's recoil at his words was more than enough to set a savage smile on his face. He slipped out the door, not bothering to look at the guard standing in a nearby alcove. Instead, he nearly sprinted to the lobby, desperately holding on to the magic in his crystal. Part of it leaked out anyway, springing to life in a field of glass and crystal. The familiar hexagonal barrier appeared before _shifting_ , becoming broken, jagged.

Harry smoothly transitioned into invisibility, positioned himself in a corner, and waited. All the while, the smell of lavender permeated the building.


	10. Chapter 9

It took another twenty minutes for the Queen and Aaron to leave Thatcher's office. When they did, Aaron looked decidedly more thunderous than usual, and even Elizabeth was restraining a frown. He canceled his invisibility, shattering into existence once more, and looked at Aaron inquisitively.

"That woman," he growled, eyes dark. A muffled expletive left his mouth then, followed by a sharp intake of air. Before Harry could open his mouth, however, the Queen raised a hand and gestured to the door.

"We shall discuss this further when we reach the car," she said briskly. "There are cameras in the lobby, and I wouldn't be surprised if there were microphones embedded into the walls as well."

Harry dutifully followed behind Aaron as they approached the car. His ire sparked slightly when Alonso gave him a nod and a jaunty wave, but it was pushed back by the trepidation on the Queen's face. Harry only allowed himself to relax when the smooth, cool leather pressed against the back of his neck. Tingles ran down his spine, causing him to shiver.

"Your Majesty?" he ventured. "Can I ask what happened after I left?"

The Queen gave him a contemplative look from the passenger seat of the car. His eyes caught her in the mirror, though he looked away quickly. "You may," she said eventually, "but I don't think there is much you'd be able to do with the information."

"I'm not stupid," Harry protested. The embers of his anger snuffed abruptly when Aaron placed a warning hand on his shoulder. "I mean—well, I'm not."

"Nobody is saying you are, Mr. Potter. However, most of what occurred in that room was a political struggle the likes of which I haven't faced in several years. Thankfully, nothing escalated to violence after yours and Aaron's attacks, but there was plenty of enmity between the five of us."

"I don't believe the Prime Minister was pleased about her office nearly becoming a battleground," Aaron muttered dryly.

"Indeed not," the Queen continued. "Mr. Shacklebolt proved most distressing to Margaret, though I have no idea why. In either case, we managed to obtain a bit of information on the workings of Wizarding Britain, as it is known, as well as an assurance that wizards are not to go anywhere near Buckingham Palace or Windsor Castle. Ever."

The finality in her tone sent an entirely different shiver down Harry's back. He centered himself, focusing on the remaining light of the barrier spell. It spread outwards from his palm almost absently, only hovering an in away from his hand before dissolving into motes of crystal dust. The power within faded slightly, still just a drop in an ocean, but just enough to leave his bones feeling hollow. Harry glanced up and nodded towards Aaron, who was watching his palm with interest.

"It looks like we're going to be doing a lot more work today, Potter," he exclaimed, clapping his hands together. Alonso glanced back, blue eyes sparkling in the rearview mirror. "Her Majesty will need to be present as well, I'm afraid. What say we break for lunch upon returning and move into an empty room?"

The Queen nodded and turned her gaze back to the road ahead. Harry knew that look; it was the same one that Uncle Vernon often wore whenever he wanted to forget that Harry existed. This time, however, he felt none of the enmity that his Uncle ever directed towards him. Instead, the Queen's intense gaze fixated so intently on the road ahead that Harry wasn't surprised when a heat haze began to rise from the road.

The return to Buckingham Palace was intense. Apparently most of the normal guard had been entirely unaware of his break-in, and it had taken both Aaron and the Queen herself directly intervening to get them to leave him be. After a grueling fifteen minutes of quiet arguments with his superior and the red-coated guards, Harry was finally allowed into the Palace, but not without a stern glare from the Captain of the Guard, William. Lunch, thankfully, had taken the edge off, with a hot stew and greens that tasted far better than they looked.

Before he could finish his stew, Harry had felt a hand clamp down on his shoulder and turned his gaze upwards. Cormac stared down at him, a crease forming at the corners of his eyes. "So it looks like you're going to be working with us," he said neutrally.

Harry gulped down a mouthful of stew and nodded. The pressure in his neck intensified when he attempted to shrink away, with no success. "It—" he burped weakly and turned a horrible red, shame burning in him. "It will be nice working with you, sir."

Cormac's frown became a soft grin. "No need to blush, Potter. After what I've been doing the past day, being angry is the least of my concerns. Seriously, pick your head up. If I'm going to be equals with an eight-year-old, I'm damn well going to make sure he can look me in the eye."

"Language, Cormac," the Queen reminded. He nodded, but only just, and Harry had the strangest feeling it wouldn't be the last swear from his mouth.

"Your Majesty, I think it's time we took Mr. Potter down to the training room and tested the full extent of what the three of us can do," Aaron said. He stood abruptly, completely passing over Harry and Cormac, and strode out the door.

"I didn't do anything, did I?" Harry asked. As always, that little wedge of disquiet jammed itself into his thoughts. Had Aaron gotten offended at something he'd said? Or was whatever Bagnold had said really that off?

"Don't worry too much about it," Cormac said. "Aaron's been pissy—sorry, Your Majesty, angry—since he came back, you know. I heard about what happened at the Prime Minister's office. That Shacklebolt man sounds absolutely terrifying."

"He was pretty big," Harry admitted quietly. "And his shoulders were really broad, too. I think his muscles must be huge!"

"Which is why we're training you up to be a good Kingsglaive," Cormac reminded. "So that people like him don't squish you like a grape if you ever get in a fight."

"Cormac, that's quite enough," the Queen ordered. "Don't go scaring the boy more than he already is. Now, if the two of you will follow me, I'll take you down to the room."

They left, Harry and Cormac still chatting amiably, the Queen walking ahead of them with a stately stare forward. Harry was led through a maze of rooms and hallways so complex he didn't think he'd be able to memorize it if he had weeks. He passed red rooms, green rooms, rooms filled with furniture so old his great-grandparents could have owned it, and a room filled with all manners of carved crystal.

Eventually, though, Harry realized just where they were going. A long hallway stretched down a basement level of the Palace, with a single oaken door at the end. Aaron was waiting in front of it, an expectant look on his face. He unfolded his arms and gestured for Cormac to give him something. A glittering gold key passed between the two, and then, without any indication of it being put in the lock, the door opened.

The room within was absolutely massive. So big, Harry thought, that he could fit the entirety of Number Four, Number Two, and Number Six in it and still have room for the yards. Impressions still dug into the floor, whether it was the simple dot of a chair leg being scuffed into the wood or massive brick of dust from an armoire. Harry inspected the slate-grey walls with interest. "I didn't know Buckingham Palace had a training room," he said.

"It doesn't," Aaron muttered. "Or at least, it didn't until today. While we were visiting your relatives and the Prime Minister, Cormac's duty was to convert one of the Queen's storage areas into a training facility for the Kingsglaive."

"Of course," Cormac interjected, looking entirely too pleased with himself, "there's still a lot of work to be done. Pretty much all I did was take away the furniture and order some machinery and weight sets. Still have to hire someone who can be trusted to reinforce the walls and the floor, and maybe we can figure out a way to make the room resistant to whatever fancy magic the two of you can do."

At the word magic, Aaron winced, though Harry wasn't sure anyone other than him had seen it. Aaron nodded nevertheless. "For now, however, we're to listen to the Queen's instructions regarding training." He turned to her, eyebrows raised. "Your Majesty?"

"The Kingsglaive was founded in defense of the King, who in turn defended the Crystal," the Queen announced. "It has extended for dozens upon dozens of generations of Lucian kings, all of whom had different methods of training their Glaive. Poenus had an army, all connected to the Ring and the magic of the Crystal. By Regis' time, more than six millennia later, there were only two dozen, all of them refugees from the war with Niflheim. At the end of Noctis' reign, only three remained, all of them close friends of the King."

"Your Majesty, this history lesson is useful, but how are we to be trained?" Aaron asked. "Cormac and I have already received standard firearms training, and some besides. We keep in decent physical condition as well. Is there more?"

"Traditionally, Aaron, Kingsglaive don't fight with guns," the Queen explained. "There are exceptions to every rule, and that is no different. However, Kingsglaive are accustomed to using magic, especially the Warp that Mr. Potter seems to be familiar with."

So _that_ was what the teleportation magic was called. Harry filed it away for future reference. "Teleporting fork still sounds cooler," he whispered to Cormac. The Irishman snorted.

"Thank you for your input, Mr. Potter." Harry's ears burned red, sparks of embarrassment in his stomach, but he grinned nonetheless. "Be that as it may, Warping is a skill that I expect all Kingsglaive to be proficient with, if not excel in. For that reason, bullets will not be your only tool. You will need a melee weapon, something that can be thrown accurately and quickly."

"Throwing knives?" Cormac asked, smirking wickedly. "I've always wanted to learn throwing knives. Sounds like fun."

"If you'd like." The Queen held up a hand. The Ring of the Lucii shone brightly for a brief moment before a blueprint rose into the air, forged of light and crystal. It solidified a moment later, becoming a curved blade with a wicked edge on the inward bow. She tested it in her hand before reeling back and throwing it. The blade arced gracefully to Harry's right. Harry only had a moment to duck when he heard the whistle of the blade cutting air, but it passed just by his ear instead of into his skull. The crystal knife whirled around and buried itself in the wall next to Aaron. The man barely reacted beyond his hand twitching towards the gun at his hip.

The Queen waved a hand, and the blade dissipated as though it hadn't ever existed. "As you can see, throwing knives aren't the only weapons that a Kingsglaive can use," she explained. "Anything that can be throwing with relative accuracy can be used, even a club or a flail if one is skilled enough. Today will be spent familiarizing yourselves with the various magicks that you can perform, but starting tomorrow, I fully expect that you all spend your time mastering the Warp spell until you can do it without a thought."

"Yes, Your Majesty," they chorused, Harry's voice noticeably higher than Aaron's or Cormac's.

The Queen sat down, and nodded for Harry to step forward. A hunk of crystal, spinning in the air and emitting a soft glow, appeared not moments later. "Attack it with everything you can think of using, Mr. Potter," the Queen said. "Do you need a weapon?"

"Dunno how to use one," Harry replied. He raised his crystallized hand, light brimming t his fingertips. The barrier shards formed once again. "But I think I can do it."

He released the spell. Jagged edges of crystal stormed away from his palm. A small cloud of dusty debris, barely the size of his torso, exploded away from the floating crystal. He stared, eyes wide behind Alonso's borrowed glasses. The shards of crystal glittered and gleamed in a web of tangled light that completely enshrouded the larger gem.

"Maybe something a little less lethal, Mr. Potter?" the Queen asked. Her stance hadn't changed, a relaxed but straight seat on her chair, but there was a hint of intrigue in her voice that hadn't been there before. "Kingsglaive may defend the King, but nonlethal options are always available."

Harry blushed and nodded before turning his gaze inwards once more. His rooted posture made him painfully aware of the fact that he was standing perfectly still while he searched, but the sunbeams wrapped around him, coaxing him to pick one. He grabbed a mote of light on instinct and drew it into the crystals.

Flames erupted from the palm of his hand. They shot across the room as a glaring sun, only detonating when they struck the crystal. Gouts of flame curled away from the crystal's unblemished surface, but Harry was already searching for a new spell.

For what felt like hours, he fired spell after spell at the crystal. The first few numbed his fingertips, the next half-dozen set a tingling in his bones. Still, he launched attack after attack at his target, determined to do _something_ to mar the almost smugly shining crystal. Eventually, the sunbeams curled back into their center, ejecting him violently from the depths of his soul. He spluttered and nearly fell.

Harry's hopeful gaze dropped when he glanced towards the crystal. Lightning ensconced it, melding with flashes of flame and jagged lances of rime. The crystal's spin had slowed somewhat, at least, but it was accelerating again with each passing moment. Even the venomous green tinge around the edges of the jutting shards didn't do more than tint the crystal for a few seconds.

"Are you alright, Mr. Potter?" the Queen asked, one eyebrow raised.

"I'm fine, Your Majesty," he lied, panting even as he regained his balance and stumbled to Cormac's side. "Just a bit tired, but give me a few minutes and I'll be right as rain."

"We shall have to see. Cormac, it is your turn. Show me what you can do."

Cormac's jacket, a dark grey that could have been black in the colorless light granted by the crystal, hit the ground with a flourish. He raised a hand, concentrated, and readied a dancing bolt of electricity between his fingers. "Your Majesty, could you conjure me a lance like you did with the throwing knife?" he asked.

With a nod and a gesture, a sparkling, crystalline replica of a spear appeared at Cormac's side. "I learned to fight with this when I was a kid," he confided to Harry with a grin. "Dad bought one off a shady guy in the Philippines and figured I might as well learn to use it if I was going to gawk at it all day."

Like a shot, Cormac was off. Harry stared; he'd never seen anyone move so quickly. Cormac had said he'd kept in shape, but just how practiced was he to move more than a dozen meters in three seconds?

Where Harry had stayed in one place, firing spell after spell, Cormac was a living tornado. He whipped the spear end over end, stabbing and slashing with the point and striking the crystal hard enough that it would have shattered had it been glass. With every volley of blows came another little lightning strike, just a bare flash and an outflow of sparks that coalesced into pure light. Harry didn't see any of the effects in the lightning that his own magic had had. Where there was fire, ice, and dozens of other effects brimming inside the sun inside his soul, Cormac focused only on lightning. What he did have, however, was brutally effective against the poor crystal.

By the time Cormac retreated, he was panting just like Harry had been. "Never felt anything like that before," he said, gasping for air. "Man, that was a rush. Better than the time I tried crack." He glanced at the Queen, a bit of red creeping over his ears. "Uh, you didn't hear that, Your Majesty."

"I'm not sure what you're talking about," the Queen said, a smile gracing her aging features. The wrinkles on her face settled into their unexpressive neutrality a moment later, and she nodded at Corrmac. "Much better than Mr. Potter in terms of hand-to-hand combat, but you didn't display nearly the same level of magical versatility."

"I don't think I can," Cormac admitted. "I felt _really_ good when I was rushing in to fight, like every one of my muscles was fresh and ready, but whenever I tried to pull any sort of magical power out of myself, the only thing that came out was electricity."

"I'm more concerned about just how quickly you were moving," Aaron said slowly. All attention swung to him abruptly. "No human can move that fast from a standing position, not even Olympic sprinters. Factoring in how the lance and the magic kept you a bit off balance, you shouldn't have been moving nearly as quickly as you were. I'm surprised the crystal didn't even fragment."

The Queen was silent for a moment, her eyes closed and her fingers twisting over the Ring of the Lucii. When her eyes flicked open once again, she nodded towards Aaron. "Normally, that would be true," she admitted. "Most of the Kingsglaive of several generations, the last six being the most memorable, did not have full access to the augmentation by the Crystal. When the Walls were needed to fight off invasion, the Walls drew on the Crystal and the Ring drew on the King to assist in powering them. Now that there is no Wall to drain from the Ring and the Crystal, their full breadth of abilities can be imparted to the Kingsglaive and the King."

"And what do these abilities entail?" Aaron asked. He threw an experimental punch, only seeming slightly surprised when his fist physically blurred. "Something like that?"

"Something like that," the Queen agreed. "From what I can glean from the other Kings, magic is normally aspected and formed by collecting from elementally-charged mineral deposits scattered around the planet. While we don't have these charges on Earth, the Crystal and Ring still allow magic to flow into the affected member. It seems, Cormac, that your soul is aspected towards lightning."

"Fast and hard," Cormac quipped, smirking. "Just like me."

"In more than one way," Aaron muttered. Harry blinked, confused, while the Queen coughed and Cormac shouted indignantly. "Putting Cormac aside, though, does it enhance body capability as well?"

"It does. Normally, only durability is enhance; bullets still do damage, but they don't pierce so badly and wounds heal more quickly. You'll find that melee weapons will be the more damaging of the two, especially if the shooter is at a distance."

"Sounds convenient," Aaron said. He pulled his jacket it off and laid it next to Cormac's before turning to the Queen. "Brass knuckles, or something to that effect, will suffice."

"Of course." Another wave of the Queen's leathery hand, and a pair of gleaming knuckles appeared on Cormac's fingers. He tested the air with an experimental punch and, seemingly satisfied, charged at the crystal, fire trailing from his fingers.

Just like Cormac, Aaron lasted far longer than Harry thought he would. Where Cormac excelled at moving around, however, Aaron planted himself every now and then to deliver a devastatingly strong series of jabs and hooks. Harry winced when he heard crystal cracking, and wondered whether it was the target or Aaron's weapons.

Cormac lasted for more than ten minutes, but Aaron managed twenty before he fell back, gasping for air. Flames still trailed from his fingertips even as he wiped the sweat away from his face. The crystal seemed scorched and barely cracked, but otherwise unharmed. Aaron, meanwhile, was a mass of sweat and burnt clothing; what was left of his shirt was soaked through to an ugly grey color that contrasted against the burnt holes littering the front. "That enough, Your Majesty?" he asked.

The Queen nodded, then glanced at the crystal. "We haven't explored the majority of abilities that will turn the tide in your battles or espionage, but that shall do for now."

She turned to leave, but Harry called out, suddenly struck with an idea. "Your Majesty?" She turned and regarded him with a questioning gaze. "What exactly can _you_ do? You're the King, right?"

The Queen glanced at the target. "I suppose I could make it shatter with a thought, but it was created by my own hand," she said. "If you want to see what the King is completely capable of, give me several years to learn all of the nuances of the Ring's magic. Until then…"

A ring of ghostly weapons, half-crystal and half-smoke, spun into existence around her. She gestured with a single finger.

The crystal was consumed by a dozen zooming weapons not a second later, drowned in blue fire. Harry stared as the smoke cleared, leaving behind crystal fragments barely the size of his fingernail.

She smirked. "That should be enough of a demonstration."


	11. Interlude (Vernon)

Vernon Dursley was not a bad man.

There were dozens of things that people could claim him to be: rude, unobservant, and incredibly critical man. He thought of himself as a clever businessman, one whose ruthlessness was a necessity in the competitive industry of making drills. Directing his own branch of Grunnings' was grueling work, so who could blame him if his temper frayed a bit at times, or he stomped into the living room with a suspiciously full glass of brandy every now and then?

Vernon stared at the amber liquid gently swirling in his cup, desperately wishing it were some of his personal stash of whiskey. As it was, the tea had a sharp, sour note to it that he wasn't quite sure was fresh. His eyes roved over the mahogany table—imported all the way from Tanzania, according to his partner's extravagant retellings—and found a glistening wedge of sunshine glimmering innocently next to his teacup.

Lemon, then. He glanced up at his partner for tea on that particular day, refusing to let anything show on his face, especially the fact that he didn't like lemon in his tea.

His partner took a sip. The man contrasted sharply with the brightness of the tea set and the spotless autumn day. His suit almost gleamed even though it was a pitch black color. Vernon ruthlessly shoved down the twinge of inadequacy when his pudgy fingers stroked the sleeves of his own, well-worn jacket. He raised the teacup to his mouth once more, internally grimacing to rid himself of his straying thoughts.

"This is a truly lovely tea set, Mr. Wilkins," he said instead. "The color is exquisite. Is it china?"

"Namibia, actually, Mr. Dursley." They shared a chuckle, Vernon more out of a pained farce of amusement than anything else. ' _Honestly, the jokes these youths are saying these days,'_ he grumbled internally. Still, it was always best to have the client smiling. A smiling client meant a better deal, and a better deal meant more for Grunnings to work with.

The mantra beaten into him by his old superior, before he'd taken over as Director of the London branch of Grunnings. It was likely he'd never forget it, even after _his_ retirement was set and he could look forward to long summers on beaches in the Mediterranean.

"Really though, it _is_ a fine set," Wilkins continued. "My grandmother owned it before me, and her grandmother before her. She used to thump my father over the head, yelling at him to 'get on with it and make a sweet little girl I can give all this old junk to'. She made do with me, as you might have guessed. Still, it is remarkable, to have a tea set last that long without any signs of damage."

"Please, Mr. Wilkins, Call me Vernon. Mr. Dursley was my father, and I've a long way to go before I reach his level of grey!"

They laughed again. This time, Vernon was able to completely quench the smattering of panic budding in his stomach. Wilkins straightened his tie, a green so bright it put his nephew's eyes to shame, and held out a hand. "Then you can call me Pierre."

The shake finally put his mind at ease. It was simple, he reflected, just a routine discussion about the nature of their agreement. Pierre, a budding director for the international branch of some American quarrying company, had simply stopped by for a quick visit. That was all. Nothing out of the ordinary whatsoever.

Now if only he could figure out why a niggling little sensation in the back of his head told him to look closer at the teacups.

"I'm glad we're getting to work together on this, Vernon," Pierre admitted. "Tulsa might be a fair distance away, but we've been looking through the records for Grunnings, and we think it might have just the kind of deal we need to make our drilling operation work."

"Let's get down to dealing, then, shall we?" Vernon asked. Pierre nodded, and with that, the two of them settled back into a business stance. The tea sat silently, growing colder and colder as Vernon and Pierre talked through contract stipulations, nuances in signing, and which types of drills would be best for which operations.

"Spiral-point, you see, is best for simply boring into stone," he explained to Pierre, who nodded agreeably. "Our newer model, the three-point, is best at crushing it and spitting it out as gravel. I don't know how much of this quarry you want to mine as blocked stone, but you'd make a fair profit off the side from selling the gravel to manufacturers."

"And how much extra would it be?" Pierre asked good-naturedly.

Vernon laughed. "We've actually got a new shipment in from our manufacturers in India. They made a mistake and built a half-dozen three-point instead of the spiral point we were promised, so they've given them to us at a reduced rate." He leaned in closer, prompting Pierre to do the same with a hand. He glanced down and noticed the honey-brown tea shifting slightly from his extra weight on the table. "I don't do this often—if I did, my superiors would mutiny, not to mention the flak I'd receive from the factory staff—but since we got the three-points for so cheap, I'm willing to cut down the prices on them by a little bit. Say, three thousand pounds more than a spiral-point?"

"How much would they normally cost?" Pierre queried. "If it's only a thousand pounds or so, there's no need to drop the price, Vernon. We may not be the most profitable business on the planet, but we have more than enough money to pay the full price."

"The full price would be ten thousand more than a spiral-point," Vernon said with a bit of a dramatic grimace. It had the intended effect; Pierre's eyes widened, and his gentle smile became a bit more genuine. The lingering heat of the tea, combined with the logistics of their deal, made Vernon feel warmer.

"Then I'd happily agree to work with your generous offer." Pierre nodded and gestured to the tea set. "More tea?" The wider shoulders on his suit jacket almost flopped in response, and Vernon had to fight down a snort. Pierre was clearly a lean man, though whether it was because of stress, a lack of eating, or simply exercise he wasn't sure. The big suits that implied power simply didn't fit his frame right.

Not like his own suit, which—while worn and beginning to fade—fit his broad shoulders and paunch perfectly.

"Please," he said, just as the front door clicked open. ' _Must be Petunia,'_ he thought brightly. "Petunia, dear? Are you back from the Polkiss' house already?"

"Yes, and Amberlain gave me a wonderful bunch of geraniums to put in the gardens!" Petunia called back. Really, whenever the _boy_ wasn't around and she wasn't shouting, her voice was practically dulcet. He smiled a little more, this time barely catching it.

"Why don't you come into the sitting room and meet Pierre first, dear? He's come from America to do business with Grunnings, and we've just settled on a deal."

"A deal is only in my case, Vernon," Pierre exclaimed. Petunia turned the corner at the same moment. Her baby-blue cardigan seemed a bit strange, as he'd only known her to wear _dark_ blues, but then again, it matched the beautiful sky outside. "Actually, it's less of a deal and more of a steal. Are you sure you wouldn't want us to pay more? Even half of the ten thousand would be enough for us to pay."

"Nonsense," Vernon chided. "We're still making an enormous profit off your spiral-point requests as it is. I'd feel bad to simply drain more money from your accounts." He didn't feel _that_ bad about it, especially since he would convince the treasurer to later deposit a small portion of the proceeds into his own accounts, but Pierre didn't need to know that.

"So this is your mysterious business partner," Petunia said. "I'm Petunia Dursley, sir. I hope you're having a good time in our home?"

"Pierre Wilkins, and it's been a pleasure," Pierre answered. "I hope you don't mind, but I brought my own tea set for this occasion. My apologies, it's just that I don't often get a chance to show it off in America, and it was my great-great-grandmother's."

Petunia flushed an interesting shade of red, though Vernon didn't mind so much as he sipped the tea in his cup. Again, he'd have preferred the bitter sting of whiskey, but whatever mellow tea Pierre had brought with him suffused another sliver of warmth inside him. ' _This tea is actually nice,'_ Vernon thought. It almost surprised him; he'd never been much of a tea person, always preferring coffee when the choice was given. It had been a running joke amongst his side of the family that there would never be a type of tea that Vernon Dursley liked.

"Now that the logistics are out of the way," Pierre began, almost hesitantly, "do you mind if I got a tour of your house? It looks absolutely lovely."

"We'd be delighted," Petunia declared, so quickly that Vernon had to click his mouth shut. "Vernon, do you mind going into Dudley's room and tidying his floor up a bit. We can't have the house looking alike a mess."

"Dudley—your son?" Vernon nodded jovially. Now Dudley, _there_ was a model boy. Big and strong, with a wit that only needed a little digging and a healthy appetite for adventure. Not the fastest boy in Surrey, true, nor was he the brightest, but he was smart enough to pass through with decent grades, and he stuck on the national boxing matches like it was going out of style.

"If that's the case, don't worry yourself too much, Vernon. It's only natural for young boys to make a bit of a mess every now and then."

Vernon simply nodded and stood, gesturing for Pierre to follow. The next hour was spent in animated conversation about Vernon's house. He pointed to one particular bathroom, recalling the time he'd gotten in a street fight with a mugger. "It was before I'd been married to Petunia, back when I'd still been an assistant at the Grunnings main office," he said. "I ended up fighting the man off, but this was where I had to wash and disinfect a knife wound to the shoulder."

It wasn't the first time Pierre had gasped in that house, either. Vernon moved through the house efficiently, explaining just what important event had happened in which room, Dudley's second bedroom was left well alone, mostly because Dudley had gotten into the habit of keeping _everything_ , even the stuff that had already been broken.

Not many people knew it, but Vernon Dursley was a man of adventure. At the tender age of fourteen, back when he was still whip-thin and lean enough to stick to kickboxing, he'd gone out on his own for a whole two years. His parents begged and pleaded, and he'd even had to dodge the police on a few occasions, but it had been some of the best years of his life. He relayed each and every little tale he had to offer to Pierre, who smiled, sucked in breath, and cheered at just the right times.

Finally, they returned to the main floor, where Pierre glanced at the _boy's_ cupboard. "You still haven't explained what this part of the house is," he said casually. "Does it lead to a basement of some sort?"

It did, but the stairs were hidden behind a wall that had been blocked by a spare, empty bookshelf. Nothing and nobody was down there, and the boy was far too small to move the bookshelf by himself. He told Pierre as much. When he expected an excited, adventurous gleam, however, a spark of confusion made itself known in Pierre's eyes.

"What do you mean by boy?" he asked. Vernon's mouth clicked shut halfway to an answer. _That_ wasn't meant to slip out. "Is there another child that lives here? Please Vernon, understand that I'm not like some people. I don't really mind if you've adopted a son or not, not like some of the others in my division."

"What?" Vernon asked, befuddled. "No, it's nothing like that. Well, I suppose he is adopted. We took him in, you see, after his parents died. Driving drunk, the fools. He's Petunia's cousin, so we try to provide, but he's a bit… well, he can be unruly at the best of times. Gets into trouble a lot at school. We've been looking into schools in the area for when he finishes primary school."

"I see." Pierre's face turned contemplative, though Vernon couldn't help but worry he was thinking about something else. It wasn't like the boy didn't deserve his lot in life, after all. He was one of the freaks, living in a place for _normal_ people like himself and his wife. Whatever devil-worship magic that he and his ilk practiced was none of their concern. If only that strange old man hadn't popped up on his doorstep one day, claiming that there was nothing the weirdos could do and that he'd have to take the boy in.

"Excuse me?" Now Pierre looked stunned, even slightly horrified, and Vernon blanched as he realized he'd been blabbering on the entire time. "Vernon, please tell me you're joking."

Vernon blustered out a denial, then turned to Petunia. Except she wasn't there. Where she'd been only moments before was a blank slate of air. Vernon turned to Pierre, begging for some semblance of normality to return to the conversation, but Pierre's face had begun to twist and shift, changing from the handsome, flat-cheeked young man to a considerably older and greyer woman with a drooping face.

"I think we have enough evidence to damn him," a new voice called. Vernon glanced around, his hand on the cupboard door. "Even without the veritaserum, his mannerisms towards Potter is more than enough to charge with neglect."

"Why stop there?" a second voice said, brash, cold. "We should put him down with abuse instead of neglect. He porbably hits the Boy-Who-Lived. Raising a hand to Harry Potter? Preposterous."

"That's a bit surprising, coming from you," said the not-Pierre. "Honestly with how much you rant about the Boy-Who-Lived, I wouldn't be surprised if you'd want to take him as your wife! You hit your own kid sometimes, Doge, and don't you go denying it. I see the welts on his face when he does something stupid."

"that's his own fault, not mine!" the voice named Doge roared. "I've never raised a hand to the boy in my life. he always ends up getting himself hurt."

The house began to melt and flicker, a combination of static and liquid that knocked the air from Vernon's lungs. He gasped out a pained breath when his beloved kitchen vanished, replaced with a grey-shale floor and a single wooden chair. Vernon yelped.

"I think," a new voice said, cool and calm, "that we should save this discussion for a later date. On that note, Elphias, you and I will be having _words_ when we're done with this meeting."

Vernon _knew_ that voice. Apparently the others did as well, judging by the instant silence that accompanied it. More of the house melted, revealing glistening chandeliers suspended from _nothing_ hundreds of feet in the air. A soft, warm glow suffused the entire room, from the grey floor to the old, worn chair to the massive stands that rose up in a circle around the room. _He_ was there, standing at the highest podium in the room, staring down at Vernon with a hidden fury blazing in his bright blue eyes.

Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore. That was the man's name, so long and so _odd_ that there was no chance Vernon would ever forget it. The man who had dumped Harry Potter on his doorstep seven years back.

"You," Vernon hissed. " _You_ , you bastard man. How _dare_ you—"

" _Petrificus Totalus_!" The words whipped out of Dumbledore's voice like a glacier cracking in half. Vernon immediately felt his body lock up, and no matter how hard he tried, no matter how much his body was telling him that it _was_ flailing, that it _was_ fighting against the invisible restraints, not a muscle budged. Vernon's eyes widened, about the only thing they _could_ do. He'd seen these freaks do magic before, and they always, without fail, required one of their bloody sticks.

Dumbledore had done so with nothing but the angry slash of a hand.

"You will be quiet while we determine your sentence, Vernon Dursley," Dumbledore growled. "The only reason you're still alive right now is because we require a trial. You're lucky we don't Obliviate you of everything except your motor skills."

"Dumbledore, calm yourself," the original female voice implored. Vernon's eyes shifted to the right. There, in the corner of his vision, he saw an exceptionally pretty young woman, probably only twenty-five or so. "You may be the Chief Warlock, but we all have a say, and we all must retain our professional stance. That goes for the rest of you as well."

"Yes, Minister," was the murmured assent from the other freaks on their podiums. Vernon couldn't count just how many there were, not with his body bound by some abnormal spell, but he could see the first two dozen staring at him with varying stages of rage. There was the man called Doge, whose face was red, slowly purpling, almost fiery in complexion. There was the woman, beautiful and cold, sharp as a blade and unafraid to bare her edge against his neck.

Then there was Dumbledore. Dumbledore, whose fire burned so brightly, so incandescent, that it hazed the air around his body and flared brightly every time Vernon dared to breathe.

"Vernon Dursley, you were apprehended on the night of 14 November, 1988, following the Minister For Magic's supposed encounter with Harry Potter. The encounter was later determined to be a false alarm, but doubts were still raised on your capability of caring for the Boy-Who-Lived. After determining the imprints on your home and the actions and words you have taken towards your charge, we, the witches and wizards of the Wizengamot, hereby charge you with neglect of a minor, punishable by Obliviation, false memory implantation, and ten years inside a medium-security Muggle prison."

Was there no plea for innocence or guilt? Vernon stared helplessly as the evidence against him was discussed fervently, most loudly by Elphias Doge and the people to his left. One particularly disgusting woman with a face like a toad stared disdainfully down at him. Had she not looked like she was nearing eighty, and Vernon had his hands free, he probably would have used what remained of his kickboxing training and sunk a clear jab straight into her face. As it was, he matched her stink eye glare for glare.

Ten minutes passed, then twenty. That soon tripled into an hour, and Vernon eventually began to wonder if he would be bound the entire time. Finally, though, the muttering dwindled to silence, and Dumbledore stood once more.

Vernon Dursley, the Wizengamot has discussed your case and found its verdict. Do you have anything to add before you are judged?"

The binding lifted as suddenly as it was cast, and Vernon stood shakily. His knees prickled and his elbows cracked with tightness, but however agonizing it was to start moving after so long, relief completely drowned everything out. "I am not a bad man," Vernon began, staring at Dumbledore blankly. "I did what I did because that was his lot in life. He should have been placed with _you_ lot, not us."

"Be that as it may," Dumbledore said, "Harry Potter is now missing, you know nothing about where he is, and thanks to you we must spend an exorbitant amount of time and money searching for a boy that should have been your responsibility."

"He should have been _yours!_ " Vernon roared. "He doesn't belong with our sort, with the _normal_ sort! Freaks like you should stick together and leave us in peace."

Dumbledore's brow furrowed, and for a moment utter silence descended across the chamber. Then, with weariness apparent on his brow and a righteous fury burning in his eyes, Dumbledore brought down a gavel. "So be it. Vernon Dursley, you have been found unanimously guilty of your crimes. Obliviators, please step forward."

Vernon watched two men in dark robes approach him. His limbs froze up, then loosened again. They hadn't put the weird bindings back on him.

' _They'll regret that,'_ he thought savagely.

The moment the first of the two came within arm's length he struck, throwing out a textbook jab. It might have been many years since he'd been into kickboxing, and he certainly hadn't gone near a gym of nearly half a decade, but there was still some vestigial muscle left on his figure. Cartilage broke under his nose, followed by a cracked yelp. He pivoted on the balls of his feet and clapped the second man where he thought his ear might be. It obviously worked; both men screeched in pain and fell to the ground, clutching their faces.

"Lower your wands!" he heard Dumbledore call, but he was already moving. Vernon bounced out of the room as quickly as he could manage, which, while not quite as fast as a normal person, was still fueled by panic and adrenaline. A man yelped in alarm as he bustled away, but nobody moved to follow him.

Door after door raced by, and closer and closer came the shouts of anger and distress. He moved through rooms filled with cloaked people, rooms that bubbled his stomach with a warmth he'd rarely experienced, rooms with so many doors that he moved to take the first one in his path instead of the many brightly-marked knobs, and one particular room where his legs slowed to molasses. Nearly ten minutes passed in that room before he made it through the other side. Luckily, the two people that had taken that path—Dumbledore and the pretty freak—seemed similarly slowed, and any spells they tried to cast had barely left their sticks before he slammed the door in their faces.

Reality abruptly reasserted itself as he nearly tumbled down a series of stone steps. An amphitheatre spread out before him, all uniform grey stone the same shade as the hearing chamber. The only outstanding feature in the long, round room was a single archway, standing in the middle, a wispy, silvery cloth stretched over its surface.

Vernon stumbled towards it, looking for any possible exits. There were none; the only door was the one that had taken him through the slow room, and that was beginning to open even as he launched himself across the amphitheatre. The burning in his chest only compounded the freezing chill that emanated from the arch, numbing his fingers and sending spikes of discomfort through his toes.

"Vernon Dursley, step away from the Veil," a new voice said. Vernon glanced up at the figure sitting on a step halfway up the amphitheatre. Silver instruments and notebooks surrounded him, though Vernon couldn't tell for the life of him what they did. "Obliviation is much more enjoyable than unexistence."

"What do you mean by that?" Vernon demanded. No ruddy _wizard_ was going to tell him what he could and couldn't touch, no matter how cold the damn arch was!

The man—he could only tell it was a man by the broadness of his shoulders and the patch of facial hair on his barely-exposed chin—smiled languidly. "The Veil is not something we understand. Things disappear when we put them in, and they don't come out. Ever. Trust me when I say that Obliviation is much more preferable to whatever fate the Veil brings you."

Vernon ignored the man and stomped closer to the Veil. The silvery cloth was familiar, almost nostalgic. He remembered seeing a cloth like that once or twice, when the freak James Potter was alive. He'd carried some silvery cloak everywhere he went, even though he'd never put the thing on. He grabbed for it, allowing the almost-liquid cloth to solidify and tighten around his fingers.

The man stood up, his own cloak flashing a faint, golden color. "Dursley, don't you dare—"

But it was too late. Vernon had already whipped the cloth off of the archway. Wisps of fog emanated from within, and though it was clearly visible, he couldn't see the other side through the mist. He backed away, even as the gentle weight of the cloth settled on his shoulders.

The maan blinked just as Dumbledore and the young woman entered the room. "Croaker, what a surprise!" Dumbledore said jovially. "What are you doing here?"

"I'm doing my job, Albus," the man named Croaker said, a lilt of confusion in his voice. "The Veil isn't going to study itself, and Death isn't like Love or Time—it can't be observed quite so directly. Now, what brings _you_ to the Chamber? As far as I'm aware, not even you have clearance to enter this deep." More lowly, Vernon thought he heard Croaker mutter, "Not that it hasn't stopped you before."

Dumbledore began to speak, but a flicker of blankess spread over his face for a moment. "I… I am not quite sure myself," he admitted. "I have the strangest feeling that I was doing something of paramount importance, but for the life of me I can't remember what it was. Perhaps I really am getting old."

"Well, whatever it is, don't you go disturbing my work," Croaker muttered. Vernon blinked and stepped closer to the man. He hadn't glanced in Vernon's direction once, not since Dumbledore and the woman had entered the room. Was he simply playing along, or were they trying to catch him off guard?

He hesitantly snapped his fingers in Croaker's face, ready to leap back and deliver a wild haymaker if need be. He wasn't rewarded with even a glance. Dumbledore and the woman simply chatted with the man for a few more minutes, then left, ambling quietly through the slow room much more quickly than they'd come.

"What in the bloody hell?" Vernon asked softly. He didn't dare remove the cloth from his shoulders, just in case he needed to throw it out in Croaker's face. Eventually though, even he left, leaving Vernon alone. He was about to follow Croaker through the door to the slow room when it sealed shut, becoming nothing but a smooth expanse of wall.

So Vernon sat, billowing folds of silken cloth wrapped around his pudgy form, and watched the Veil with a discerning eye. Surely it would only be a little longer until Croaker came back, and then he'd slip back to his home and everything would go back to normal.

"That whole trial was a farce," he muttered. "Honestly, bloody wizards thinking they can try _me_ for anything? Abandoning one of their own folk to good, well-brought people, how shameful." Still, he didn't blame himself. After all, it wasn't _his_ fault that Dumbledore had dumped the Potter boy on his doorstep one night. He'd even givent he boy clothes and food and a place to sleep; much better than what Potter would have gotten on the streets.

Because Vernon Dursley was giving, to a point. Vernon Dursley was not a bad man.


	12. Chapter 10

Harry slammed to the floor, breath rushing from his lungs and a discomfort bordering on pain blossoming in his ribs. The subtle crack of his back nearly distracted him from avoiding another swing. The crackle of crystal on crystal resounded throughout the training room, just loud enough to make his ears ring and his nausea return.

"Keep your focus!" Cormac snapped, raising his glasslike lance once more. Harry twisted. He was small, true, and on a good day he was just as agile as Cormac was, but the older man rushed forward in a blinding sweep just when he thought he'd gotten an attack pattern down. His sword slid further into the pockmarked floor, courtesy of a whistling downward stroke. Before Cormac could pull back, Harry tore at one of the spells brimming within his soul and projected it outward. The sparks dancing along the edge of the lance—just strong enough to be painful—flickered out weakly.

A gust of air accompanied the familiar drain of his magic. It took a second to rip his sword from the ground, but it was a second that Cormac had faltered, and Harry balanced himself on his front foot. Motion blurred at the corner of his eye. He barely managed to raise his sword in a parry before it was caught by the flat of Cormac's lance.

"Your balance is shit," Cormac said sharply. "Spread it evenly, across your feet! Weigh down your strikes with your back, not your balance!"

Harry only nodded, mouth dry and lungs aching. His breaths would have come in gasps had Cormac given him the time to inhale. AS it was, his nose flared sharply on occasion, every strike a fleeting instant to catch some air. A second spell rose to the surface of his soul-sea. He grasped it eagerly.

Just before Cormac swept past his sword, intent on delivering a glancing blow that would lead to yet another shallow cut, Harry released the magic. It flowed throughout his body, continuous, clockwise. He _moved_ with it. The familiar azure glow of Warp energy reflected in Cormac's suddenly-wide eyes. He tried to pull back, but it was too late; Harry billowed backwards, just a fraction of an inch, enough to cause Cormac to overextend and trip. He recovered quickly, but not before Harry delivered a gentle slice across his sternum.

"Point to Harry," Aaron said. Harry fought the urge to glance at his commander, instead keeping his eyes on Cormac's sluggishly oozing cut. The blood flow certainly wasn't normal, instead a few mere drops that seemed to be evaporating even as they stared at each other. "Match point, on Cormac. Start!"

Then Cormac surged forward again, and Harry's body dissolved into a flurry of action and reaction. The man was clearly going easy on him, and a small part of Harry gritted its proverbial teeth in distaste. It bubbled up, only to be encapsulated by a sunbeam that became a weak Thunder spell erupting from his palm. The lance of light was easily caught on Cormac's spear and redirected, sparking into the nearest wall without harm.

"Just make it painless, Harry," Cormac suggested. "You're not going to win this one."

"I don't win _any_ of them!" But that single second of speaking disrupted his breathing patterns, and when his breathing left, so did his focus. Cormac's lance suddenly sparkled where nothing had been a moment before. Harry's eyes widened.

"Nowhere to go!" Cormac roared. Harry's hand slipped inside his pocket. A cool, smooth stretch of metal twisted obediently under his grasp. The Warp magic he'd used to avoid the spear the first time wouldn't rise from his soul again, at least not yet. So he grabbed a different one.

The first spoon Harry threw Warped him a half dozen feet backwards. The second teleported him just to the edge of Cormac's sight, still out of range. Harry caught the discerning eye of Aaron tracking him and the glints of metal, still burning blue with Crystal magic. There was something… calculating in his gaze. Approving, but calculating.

And then he was gone, reappearing right behind Cormac. A bit of velocity from the Warp carried over, and he grinned, aiming his sword right at Cormac's shoulder. The blade extended.

Without even looking at him, Cormac used the butt of his lance to whip his arming sword to the side and lash him across the thigh with the blade. Harry couldn't suppress the surprised grunt, but he _could_ fight back the cry of heated pain that came from landing on his injured leg. Cormac swept his lance up and twirled it, blood flying from the spinning blade. "What is it with you and teleporting fucking cutlery?" he demanded.

"And that's the match," Aaron said as he stood. Beside him, the Queen looked on impassively, as did three other recruits. "Cormac, you win."

"Not so surprising," he said, grinning. "Still, you put up a good fight for a brat, Harry. Need some help with that leg?"

Harry shook his head, searching his soul for the proper sunbeam. It shone, and Harry sifted through the tree of knowledge that came with it. A spell, invariably complex but one he could at least perform, rose to the surface. He grasped it and forced the magic to bend to its pattern.

A wash of gold-green light spewed from his fingertips. Skin and flesh knit back together wherever the light struck, along with a pleasant, numbing warmth. The inflamed flesh bubbled back to normal in mere seconds. "I'm better with healing than you are. Not to mention I don't trust you with that glorified glass stick."

"You're one to talk," Cormac retorted easily. "You change weapons every time we spar."

The Queen stepped forward, shaking her head at Cormac. The admonishment was offset by her amused smile, however. "I've told you before, Cormac, that there is no reason for Mr. Potter to grow particularly attached to a weapon until he has completed his training," she said primly. "Whereas you and Aaron already had skill in your particular choices, Mr. Potter is completely talentless with weapons and too small to use anything other small weaponry."

Cormac snorted and turned away, allowing his crystal lance to dissolve into motes of dust that spread evenly along the floor. Harry snorted and let off an Aero; the crystal sand, built up over a week of spars, magic practice, and discussions that became arguments, blasted towards a nearby wall. It joined the small pile of glittering grains that slowly grew in one corner of the room. He glanced at the Queen searchingly. "Are we ever going to use that stuff?"

"The Kings say it is useful," the Queen admitted. "They will not give me any more information than that, but they have not been wrong yet."

"Alright, Kingsglaive! Form up!" Aaron's snap brought barely a flinch to Harry's shoulders. He glanced at his commander and stood in a lazy half-circle with the other recruits. Cormac grinned at him from his left, while an older, more grizzled man glared down at him from his right. "Her Majesty has an important announcement. You listen and listen well, or I'll have the talkers in for double training tonight."

Where most of the others groaned, Cormac included, Harry fought the urge to snark back in reply. Double training might have been hell, but using the Warp was _fun,_ even if he could only Warp a few times before getting nauseous. Battling with it just made things merrier.

The Queen stepped up, her stern gaze sweeping across all of them. The light gleam of the stone set within the Ring of the Lucii shut Harry's mouth faster than he possibly could have on his own. "Tomorrow morning, the two oldest members of the Kingsglaive, Cormac and Aaron, are going on their first mission as protectors of the Crown. This is all I am going to tell you, so be on your guard for the next week of your stay here. You might not have your taskmaster here to push you to your limits, but rest assured you will easily be trained as hard."

Another round of groans, this time more subdued than the first. The Queen didn't give any indication she heard them. "That concludes our business for today. Dinner will be brought to you in an hour, so until then, discuss things amongst yourselves. If I hear of _one more argument_ between anyone, Mr. Potter will have the permission to use his magic on you." Harry smirked and raised his hands, suddenly wreathed in lightning.

Any further muttering died down completely at that point.

As the recruits wandered about their business, Harry approached the Queen. "Your Majesty, is there somewhere we could talk?" he asked, a niggling idea in the back of his head. She raised an eyebrow, but nodded and gestured out of the training room. It had grown substantially in the three months Harry had been training as a part of the Kingsglaive, and though he was still just a recruit according to the Queen, he was easily their most magically skilled. Physical weapons, on the other hand…

Well, the throb in his hand said a great deal.

He navigated the halls of Buckingham Palace with ease. The Windsor Castle pathways would be more difficult, once the Queen moved there for the spring and summer, but Buckingham was mapped as easily as the inside of his old cupboard. His eyes fell on a familiar tearoom across from a recently-repaired window.

"How about here?" he suggested. She nodded and bade him enter. He grinned at the still-dented silver tea set that had been placed there only hours before.

"What would you like to discuss, Mr. Potter?" the Queen asked. Harry winced when he thought of it.

"I want to join Aaron and Cormac on their mission."

If the Queen was surprised, she did not show it. The only indication she'd even heard him was the faint downward tug at her lips, and even then he only spotted it because he'd been looking her in the eye for most of the three months he'd been a part of Kingsglaive. "And why should I allow that?" she asked. "Mr. Potter, the mission I am sending Cormac and Aaron on is _dangerous_ , extremely so. I will not deny that you are skilled with magic, but that's about the only thing you have. Your prowess with weapons, physical and ranged alike, is abysmal, and you know none of the survival skills that Cormac and Aaron are trained in."

"You said it yourself, I'm the best we have with magic," Harry argued. A heat began to rise in his chest, and he wasn't sure if it was anger making itself known or the remnants of one of the fire spells he'd shot at Cormac in their spar. "Cormac can barely use it himself, and all Aaron does is set things on fire. I've been rediscovering spells that some of the Kings don't even _know_ about."

"Again, why should I send you?" the Queen repeated. "They might not need magic for their mission."

"Please," Harry snorted, "of course they're going to need magic on their mission. If it was something normal, you would have just sent some government agency to do it. People don't even know we exist, and we have _magic_ to separate ourselves from that."

The Queen stared at him neutrally. The ember in his heart didn't wink out, though, and he continued to stare fiercely at her. Eventually, she sighed and shook her head, a small but amused smile on her face. "Sometimes I wonder if you're really the same shy child that turned up in one of my tearooms three months ago. Where did you get to be so outspoken against your elders?"

 _Elders,_ Harry noted. Not authority, but elders. "Cormac hasn't been a very good influence on me," he admitted ruefully. "He's a good fighter, but a bad politician."

"And he's the best of our lot for it," the Queen shot back. Her smile dropped, and again there was a solemn hint of something he couldn't identify in her eyes. "I am afraid, Mr. Potter, that I will have to deny your request to join Aaron and Cormac on their mission."

"What? But why?"

"Several reasons, not all of them satisfactory." The Queen raised a chine teacup, inspecting the color lazily. "Mr. Potter, you've said it yourself. You're the best magician we have in the Kingsglaive, and we need someone who can teach that art to the recruits. I can do some of it, but they will empathize better with a member of their own crew. Besides, you're not mature enough for this mission."

"I am _not_ immature!" Harry denied immediately. The Queen merely raised an eyebrow. He huffed in response and shook his head.

"Mr. Potter, you are indeed immature. The fact that you demanded to argue this point instead of seeing the reason behind it is proof enough of that."

"But—"

"Enough, Harry!" The Queen snapped. Harry stumbled back, eyes wide, from the sudden halo of Holy magic surrounding her. "My decision is final. You're not experienced, mature, or expendable enough to join Cormac and Aaron on a mission that is time-sensitive, deadly, and _important_. Are we clear?"

Harry didn't respond immediately, instead trying to quell the seething rage bubbling in his stomach. His magic wrenched violently, torn between taking action against the person that had hurt him and cowering under the weight of the Queen's stare. "Are we clear?" she repeated, more force in her voice.

Eventually, Harry nodded mutely and turned to leave the room. The Queen didn't say anything as he left, giving him just enough time to run to the end of the hallway before a few unwanted tears leaked from under his eyelids.

The flame already lit inside him and magic mixing with anger, Harry slowly unclenched his fists. The jagged shards of crystal hovering mere centimeters from his hand vanished into dust. ' _No use crying over this,'_ he though bitterly. Still, he couldn't completely fight the needle of betrayal piercing through the forced calm.

"I'm _good_ at this!" he snarled to the empty hallway. "I can _do_ this!"

"Can you really?"

Harry blinked and whirled, a specific sunbeam already selecting from the brilliant light shining inside his soul. The speaker tensed, then relaxed. "You're getting me all sorts of snappy, Potter. Cool off and come in for some tea with Gerard and me."

Beatrice Friesinger stared down at him, making him feel even smaller than he usually did. She walked with willowy elegance towards an open tearoom, then glanced back and gestured for him to follow with a bangle-clad hand. He fought off the surprise of her appearance and did so, still bubbling with impotent anger.

"Bea, is that Potter with you?" Gerard Bole asked. Where Cormac was tall and thin and wild, Gerard was a stocky, short man, with a beard more impressive than most others Harry had seen. H raked a hand through oak-brown hair before settling his gaze on Harry. "It is," he said brightly. "Come, boy. Sit down and have a cup. Might take your mind off things."

Harry moved quickly through the room, feeling Beatrice' hazel eyes on him the entire time. A teacup had already been set out for him, and Harry fleetingly wondered whether or not they had expected him to show up.

"Now, what's this shouting business about?" Gerard poured Harry a cup of steaming tea. The soothing scent of lavender and chamomile did nothing to calm his nerves, however, and he didn't even reach for the cup.

"Cormac and Aaron are going on a mission," Harry said sullenly. "I've been on the team just as long as they have, and I'm _really_ good at doing magic. Why don't I get to go with them?"

Gerard and Beatrice shared a searching look, one that made Harry feel like a zoo animal. When they glanced back, he schooled his expression. The soft smile on Gerard's face left a warm fuzziness coiling around the remaining anger in his stomach. "Harry, I'm going to be honest. You're not ready." Harry opened his mouth to protest, but Gerard stopped him with a single finger. "We are not ready. None of us are. Not even Cormac and Aaron."

"Then why would Her Majesty send them to do something?"

Beatrice set down her teacup. Where Gerard was all warmth, a trace of aloof coldness mirrored every action she took, every move she made. Still, there was something approaching familiarity in her eyes when she peered over her oval glasses at him. "Cormac and Aaron have had years of government training and experience with all forms of politics," she said stiffly. "Out of all of us, they are certainly the most qualified. They're each a master of a martial art, and with the addition of the magic that is gifted by the Queen, they present a credible threat to the average security force. _However_ , they are still new with magic. As are you, for that matter."

"But I'm still better than them!" Harry complained. "Cormac can't even cast a Shell. How is he going to protect himself?"

"Through conventional means," Beatrice said. "Body armor and potions, for one." Harry must not have looked convinced—mostly because he _wasn't_ —since Beatrice rolled her eyes. "Harry, we all come from strange situations. Three months ago, I was an illegal prostitute on the Piccadilly. Gerard didn't have a penny to his name. Only Cormac and Aaron actually had some sort of chance from the beginning. We need _years_ , Harry, before we're all ready to handle the kind of missions that the Queen says the past Kingsglaive went on. Nyx Ulric fought in a war. You're _eight_."

"And a half," Harry muttered puerilely. Gerard shook his head, small smile still in place, even if it was more despondent than usual.

"That's what we mean, Harry. If we're not going, then you probably shouldn't either. I know you want to be helpful, but when missions like this come up, you won't be useful for a few years yet." Gerard leaned in, setting his tea to the side. "Look on the bright side, eh? You're young, so you learn faster. You'll probably be the first one of us out in the field when Her Majesty clears us for duty."

Harry glanced up, a bit of fire rekindling in his gut. The spoons gleamed for a moment, and he realized with a jolt of embarrassment that he'd _literally_ begun glowing when Gerard had finished. "You really think so?" he said in a small voice.

"It's more likely than me working my way into Buckingham Palace," Gerard answered, disheveling Harry's already-ruffled hair. Harry smiled and allowed the irritation to finally subside.

The three of them talked for a while longer, never lingering on a topic for more than a few minutes. Harry could barely follow half of the conversation; he'd only heard a few hints about who was lined up to be the next Prime Minister, what was happening with Diana and her husband, and the matter of the royal family. They always came back around to him, though, and where the bitter rejection of being denied a place on Cormac's and Aaron's mission had once flourished, a prideful acceptance warmed.

"Would you look at that," Gerard exclaimed much later. "It's almost time for dinner to be served. We better get to the dining hall, or Her Majesty will have our hides." Harry stood, exiting the room before either of them could shunt the duty of tidying up the tearoom to him. Beatrice was particularly fond of it.

Before he could go more than a few feet, he reached into his pocket and smiled. The Queen could certainly stop him from going on the mission with Aaron and Cormac, whatever it might be, but could she stop a Kingsglaive? The cool, smooth metal of the teaspoon rubbed soothingly against his skin.

' _Teleporting fucking cutlery indeed, Cormac.'_


	13. Chapter 11

Harry glanced towards the unmarked truck parked in the courtyard of Buckingham Palace. It was a stale yellow color, so commonplace that nobody would look twice at it. Even the guards stationed in front of the Palace had to look twice to really get a good idea of what was there.

And Harry had to find some way to sneak in. ' _Easy.'_

"Alright," he coached quietly, eyes roaming across the red-stained courtyard. Dawn was coming up in just a few minutes, and it was only the beginnings of an adrenaline rush and the bleeding red of the coming dawn that staved off a pang of exhaustion. "Just have to get past a dozen guards, security cameras, microphones, Cormac, Aaron, and a driver. Simple."

He paused. "Ah, who am I kidding? This is gonna be so hard."

Moving before he could have second thoughts, Harry pulled a crystal knife from the air, gleaming and sparkling a dull red. It found itself high in the air not a second later, and Harry allowed darkness to overcome his vision.

Warp energy bled away from him in a shattered cocoon of glass. Even as he rose, Harry could feel his momentum coming to a halt. Another knife formed in time with a chunk of his magic leaving him. Shade wreathed existence once more.

Four times Harry Warped, and four times he appeared higher and higher in the air, moving more sluggishly with each teleport. Thankfully, none of the guards thought to look up, and the one time he saw someone peering out a window, it was on the left side of the Palace. Harry grinned and siphoned another portion of his magic into creating a crystal spear. The lance fell quickly, almost too quickly, but at the very last second Harry caught it and waited.

Then freefall caught him, and the brunt of the adrenaline rush slammed into his veins. Harry felt _wonderful_. He almost created another knife, but caught himself just before he could allow the creation to take form. ' _Is this what skydivers feel like?'_ he asked giddily. ' _If so, I can see why they jump out of planes so much_.'

The euphoria only lasted for a few scant seconds before Harry had to ready his spear. He launched it downwards, straight into a copse of bushes. The familiar sizzling sound of crystal striking ground and cracking met his ears, and, praying that not too much of his momentum would transfer over, he Warped.

Nausea slammed into his gut, nearly knocking his feet out from under him. Still, he appeared in the world once again, ready to hurl. Bile rose in his throat. He pushed it down forcefully and peered through the brush. Thankfully, none of the guards were approaching his little hedge ring, and some of his nausea had faded into the shining abyss of his soul. He selected a sunbeam and brought it to the surface. A familiar, scaly glass-skin flecked off his arms, revealing nothing but smooth dirt and cool air beneath it. Harry grinned and transferred the invisibility to his spear. It had split at one point, becoming three slivers of crystal. He grabbed two, leaving one as a softly shining beacon. It would fade, but hopefully not before he placed the other two lances at their points.

Harry poked his head over the hedge. The only guard in sight was staring at the cream-yellow truck, his rifle gripped tightly in his hands. Harry brought his spear to bear and aimed. His throw was off point, but not by much, and with a grunt he Warped to the guardpost instead of the wall he'd planned.

Breath, frigid and wintry, caught in his throat when the guard glanced up. Harry pulled back behind the guardpost. More magic flared in his system, but he pushed it down. ' _Not yet,'_ he thought bitterly, and almost reluctantly, the magic obeyed.

A minute passed, then two, then five. Harry waited until he couldn't hear the steady breathing of the guard before he aimed his next spear. It was a simple thing to Warp to the roof of the guardpost and crouch down. The sun hadn't yet broken over the horizon, but it seemed extremely close to; the deep reds and violets of dawn had faded into a golden yellow color. "Four minutes, probably less," Harry deduced. "How can I make this count?"

The guard, still watching the truck closely, glanced over towards the door to the Palace. Harry looked that way as well. Cormac's familiar flame-red hair was the only defining factor in the pre-dawn dimness, but there was no mistaking _that_ , and the sheer black that moved against the faintly illumined background could only be Kingsglaive uniforms. Harry had only just brought his own; leaving it in his locker would have bought a bit of time, but not enough to count.

Harry strained his ears, but he couldn't hear what Cormac and Aaron were talking about over the faint rumble of the truck. A flare of magic caught his attention from within, and he grinned. A new spell, revealing itself as a distinctly _different_ sunbeam than the rest. He grasped it, inspecting it briefly, before shedding his invisibility.

" _Illusion_ ," he whispered. Light bent, twisted, _warped_. Steam rose from his skin as it began to grow red with the tinge of sunburn, but that just as quickly faded into the brown-black shale of the guardpost roof. Harry waved his hand. The faintest impression of a finger remained, almost a delay between his illusion and the skin peeking through. Harry smiled weakly. The invisibility flickered and failed from moving too quickly, but even with a bit of a figure left in view, it was better than nothing.

Harry moved, then, releasing the shards of his spear into the wind and throwing himself over the side of the roof. He dashed, kicking up bits of dirt and dust even as Cormac and Aaron approached. The guard did nothing as he slid underneath the truck and came around the other side, clambering onto the roof.

"You're going to be joining us, Arrault?" he heard Cormac ask. Harry blinked. Who was Arrault?

"Won't be," a gruff voice answered. "Her Majesty needs the guard here, especially since you people with your magic spells are gone. Her Majesty's on a trip to France soon; meeting with an ambassador or summat. Half the guard's going with her, so the other half's got to keep your recruits in line."

Aaron made a noise of affirmation. "Watch Potter, would you?" he asked seriously. "Be careful. The boy's slippery at the best of times, and Her Majesty's adamant on him not leaving the castle."

Harry felt a pang of guilt, but quashed it just as quickly. ' _They need me_ ,' he reminded himself. ' _They need me to keep them safe_.' Harry felt the illusion flicker, a faint lightening of his skin and a bit of heat that pricked in the center of his soul. He winced when the guard glanced up at his position. Thankfully, neither Cormac nor Aaron appeared to have noticed.

"I'll keep an eye on him," the guard promised. He grinned a bit, and Harry once again caught a glance to his position. "Saw him just a bit ago, in fact. Sulking, but he seems okay. Didn't look like he'd gotten any sleep last night. Now I mention it, I didn't either."

Arrault yawned, deep and powerful. Harry scowled even as he felt the irresistible urge to yawn as well. A deep burp echoed from his mouth as soon as he opened it.

Everyone froze. Harry hissed in displeasure and pressed himself as close to the roof as possible. The illusion flickered again, just faintly, but enough for the guard to pass a warning glare his way. Harry simply blinked back owlishly.

"Had too many beans last night?" Cormac asked weakly. Arrault shook his head and rubbed at his scalp with his free hand.

"Might've been," he admitted. "Us regular guards don't get the kind of fancy food you Kingsglaive do. Nothing but beans and pork. Asparagus, too, if Captain's feeling particularly generous."

Harry breathed a sigh of relief. The three chatted for a few more minutes, each word gnawing at a growing impatience in Harry's gut, before Cormac finally cleared his throat and looked around. "Dawn's just broken," he noted. "Aaron, let's get the truck packed and get going. Need to be in Otterburn by tomorrow morning."

"We'll make it there by nightfall at this rate," Aaron muttered. Still, he followed Cormac as the men began to load crates in the back of the truck. Harry watched closely, not daring to switch back over to his invisibility spell even when the illusion flickered twice more. More light broke through, stinging his already-red skin and staining the wooden crates in the bed of the truck an umber-red.

The moment Aaron finished stacking the last of the crates in the bed of the truck, Harry scrambled down from the roof, trying to make as little noise as possible. The few sounds that came from weight shifting on the chassis were muffled by Cormac's loud conversation with Arrault. Aaron beckoned Cormc over, then tossed a tarp on top of Harry and the crates. The sounds of shuffling fabric and a stretching sensation across Harry's back followed soon after.

Harry winced in a vain attempt to control his breathing. Small, dark space didn't mesh well with him at all. The cupboard was okay, but that was because it was the _cupboard_ , the place he'd slept with Robin and his ratty little blanket for years. Harry almost immediately recalled the first time the Queen had led him into one of the lockers—they couldn't even be called that, given they were the size of a small walk-in closet—and shut the door as a demonstration of its sturdiness.

Harry's cheeks flushed red as he remembered the mounting panic in his gut. The same panic, mind, that chilled his blood to ice and lanced fire through his bones. Panic chilled and scalded and he needed to get _out now_ before the walls closed in—

Harry breathed a sigh of relief when the truck final started moving. The illusion had been a massive drain, so huge that even Warping had been dwarfed by its needs. He pushed around inside his soul, looking for any dregs of energy left. A few clumped together sluggishly, and though he could feel it beginning to regenerate it would take a n hour at least to get back to a usable capacity. Harry grabbed the last few strands of magic in his person and meshed it with a sunbeam that brought with it the thought of a sharp edge and glittering fragment of glass.

A simple crystal dagger, even cleaner in design than the ones he usually conjured, sparkled into existence with a flash and a clang of glass on glass. Harry winced, inwardly hoping that the dull rumble of tires treading across road would be enough to mask the sound. A trio of neat cuts left him a triangular hole in the tarp, just enough to look through. The _get out get out get out_ chanting in the back of his head faded into an unintelligible whisper, soon gone from thought entirely.

Red had left the sky entirely, instead becoming a golden-yellow that glowed through a thin layer of flowing clouds. Harry breathed deeply, watching street signs flash past at progressively higher speeds. With the illusion faded and nigh-all of his magic gone, he sat and waited.

Cormac and Aaron stopped twice: once for gas, as he found when he was nearly caught after poking his head out through the hole in the tarp, and once for food. Harry found his stomach growling, but didn't dare leave the tarp in case the two of them left without him. All that showed through the tarp was the sky, changing from yellow to blue to a gradual grey as the clouds thickened.

"Don't you dare rain," he muttered, just as a fat, cold droplet of water splashed on his face. "Wonderful." He cast a weak Shell, just enough not to be noticed, and relaxed back into the hard metal of the truck bed. His shield rippled feebly when the rain struck it with ever-increasing fervor. Little plops of heat pulsed through the shield every now and then, its hexagonal panels vibrating slightly, but to Harry's delight, it held through the storm.

Then a metallic slam echoed throughout the chassis of the truck, and he was moving again.

An hour, then two, then so many that Harry lost count and simply contented himself with staring at the roiling grey sky. Bumps and cracks pervaded the journey, cracking his back and knuckles. Even the prospect of curling up and going to sleep became a distant memory in time. His world became grey light, filtered through with the blue of magic and the streaking brown of an occasional tree branch.

He yawned. That tingle in his limbs hadn't gone away, not since he'd bounced on a particularly bad pothole and jabbed something in his shoulder blades. The truck came to a coasting, quiet stop.

"Let's go, before it gets any darker," he heard Aaron mutter. Harry tried to blink back the exhaustion rubbing at the insides of his eyes. The tarp came back, and Harry, panicking, threw the first spell that came to mind.

' _Thank the gods it's invisibility_ ,' he whispered internally. His limbs vanished into the familiar dusting of Crystal sand just before Cormac peered over the various crates loaded into the back. He popped one open experimentally.

"Anybody order some wicked brass knuckles?" he asked with a smirk. Harry maneuvered himself as best he could and peered into the box. Indeed, a half-dozen sets of gleaming knuckles, a shiny silver instead of the platinum-gold he expected of brass, lay in neat piles at the bottom of the box. Beside them were six streamlined spears, more javelins than anything else, made from smooth steel and shining wood. Harry almost picked one up, but paused when Cormac went for them as well. The Irishman grinned and tested it against something over the lip of the bed.

Harry winced at the crashing sound and faint impact. "Keep the destruction for the actual mission, Cormac. Doubt the residents like to clean up after your messes."

"Sod it, Aaron," Cormac shot back good-naturedly. "If it's destructible, it's obviously not safe enough to be around me. Remember that table in that bar in St. Louis?"

"I think you mean 'pile of splinters'," Aaron groaned. "Really, Cormac, we need to get a move on. It's already hitting sunset, and they only come out around night according to the sources. I want info, not lollygagging."

"Yes, sir!" Heavy footfalls crashed around outside before all went silent. Harry dared to peek out over the lip of the truck bed. Aaron and Cormac, luckily, had their backs to him, and they couldn't see the way his form flickered when he leapt out of the bed of the truck. HE hastily shoved one of Cormac's spears in his pocket-space, granted upon special request by the Queen herself, and searched through the rest of the crates. Most were food, water, and blankets, though Harry didn't see why two people would need more than a half-dozen. The jackpot, however, came from a beautiful pair of knives, curved inward along the blade's edge, that gleamed an almost gold color in the combination of neutral grey and fiery gold. Even the single rapier he found balanced perfectly on his wrist, though it was a bit too long either way.

Harry grabbed the knives and their holsters without a second thought before running to a tree. Aaron's head whipped around when Harry stepped on a twig, but by the time his eyes caught the truck Harry was already cowering behind a trunk and ready to Warp away.

Cormac and Aaron parked in the _strangest_ little area Harry had ever seen. The abundance of apple trees made the walk along the dirt trail lovely and fragrant, but the little dust-filled cul-de-sac of farmland and barns they'd parked in only saw grass and fallow fields for miles around. Harry strained his ears. Somewhere in the very edge of his hearing, he could make out the sound of car tires dragging their quarries along an asphalt road, combined with the occasional beep of a far-off horn.

Harry sneezed.

Cormac and Aaron froze, eyes wide and whipping around. Harry swore softly, though it only seemed to add fuel to the fire; Cormac's eyes locked on his position for a moment before peering past him. "You hear that?" he asked quietly. Harry scampered up one of the apple trees lining the path. The few cracks and snaps of bark chips falling only seemed to agitate Aaron, whose teeth were grinding and fists blazing, further.

"I heard it," he grunted. "Let's find it."

Cormac charged forward without a second thought, swinging one of the edges of his spear. It cleaved through a good few inches of the trunk with little apparent effort. Harry cursed and fell to the ground, hands outstretched to catch his fall. HE glanced up, one of the knives already in his hand, but before he could Warp away the _terrifically_ sharp point of Cormac's spear had rested between his eyes.

"Harry James Potter, you are in _so_ much trouble," he muttered. The invisibility spell fizzled out, revealing his scraped fingers in a tangle of dirt and crystal dust.

Where Cormac had a disappointed crease to his brow, Aaron looked visibly furious. " _What the hell are you doing here_?" he snarled. "Last I checked, you were explicitly _banned_ from joining us on this mission!"

Harry stayed silent, his lips glued together. The dreaded pit of shame and anger melded in his stomach, becoming a glue that stuck his hands to his sides and dragged his face towards the ground. He began to count the pebbles embedded in the dirt when Aaron spoke again. "You're lucky I don't knock you straight out and send you back to Buckingham _by mail_! What were you _thinking_ ¸ coming along on a life-threatening assignment without any knowledge, any weapons, and backup, and absolutely _zero_ permission? Hm? Tell me that."

Harry took a deep breath in an attempt to force the growing rage down. It was a harder effort than he expected. "I came here because I wanted to be of use, sir," he said stiffly. The barest twitch of a snarl on Aaron's lips was the only sign that he'd said the wrong thing.

"You'd be of better use back at the Palace, training to be a good Kingsglaive, not _risking your neck with us_." Cormac laid a hand on Aaron's shoulder and stepped forward, his gaze noticeably kinder.

"Harry, listen," he said quietly. It's not that you're a bad member of the Kingsglaive, really. It's just that you're not good enough yet."

"But I am!" Harry snapped back. "I am good enough. I beat Aaron the last time we sparred!"

"You _tied_ with me, you brat!" Aaron roared. "And it only took one punch to send you reeling. _One_! If you can't take a beating, you won't be able to do shit in the Glaive!"

"I don't need to when I have this—"

Harry yelped just as the Shell he'd cast reinforced itself with a glowing stream of magic. It sparkled with inner strength that could probably turn aside a decent fireball, and definitely could outright block a swing of Cormac's lance.

It completely shattered under a single one of Aaron's blazing-fast jabs.

Harry stared, agape, at the shards of crystal that fell down around him, glowing and fading into motes of dust. He looked up at Aaron, clad in a suit and brass knuckles, dark hair cropped closely to his face. The man's breath came in ragged pants. Angry breathing, Harry realized with a start, not the gasps of a person dripping with sweat and tiredness.

"Like I said, you can't do _shit_." Aaron turned around and started walking back towards the distant set of houses and groves of apple trees. "You should just go back while you can. Use the mobile in the car, or Cormac can lead you to the nearest house. Just _leave_ , Potter. You're not ready for this yet."

Cormac gave him a _look_ , pity blended with disappointment. Somehow, the stare only made him feel more furious. "There's a phone in the truck," he said weakly. "I should really go make sure Aaron doesn't do something stupid. I know you can take care of yourself around normal stuff, but this really is a life-threatening situation we're dealing with here. I don't want to see you get hurt before you can actually fight in the Glaive, Harry. Be safe."

With that, Cormac left, leaving Harry alone on the ground. He clutched the knife he'd stolen in one hand. A frigid raindrop splashed his face for the second time that day.

Harry decided, right then and there, that he _hated_ Aaron Maccoby.


End file.
